


Oblivion

by kosiah



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2018-10-08 02:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 173,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10375842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosiah/pseuds/kosiah
Summary: A retelling of the life and times of Polla Organa, Deralian Smuggler and her crew and their quest for the Star Forge. Prequel to Memory, may work as stand-alone. There are spoilers for Memory... but not the big reveals."These are the things you should know about Polla. Polla Organa was a Deralian smuggler. Polla Organa saved the galaxy. And the real Polla Organa is dead. She had to die so that you could live.But Polla Organa didn’t kill Malak. That was you. Us. Me."





	1. Kiss the Sky

**Oblivion**

XXX

 _They_ _stood on the roof of the terraced spire. Below, Coruscant spun, with its lights like a billion tiny smiles. The city churned with life, and hope, and promises; just like Carth had promised her what felt like a century ago: atop a doomed platform on a dying station, orbiting a world with no name._

_But Revan's face felt raw and exposed. And every nerve urged her to flee._

_..._

_Revan took a deep breath. "Carth, when I thought I was Polla Organa, I thought I knew how to pilot a ship, man a gunner turret, race a swoop bike, and drink an entire bottle of Tatooine wine. But when I tried to do those things…."_

_"You were terrible at them." Carth tried to laugh, but it came out choked. He raised a hand to her cheek, pulled her closer. She felt his heartbeat through the horrible sequined dress uniform. His lips pressed against her forehead. Almost a kiss._

_He'd shaved, and he smelled like something expensive and citrus, not as she remembered._

_"The things that Revan knew how to do came easily to me. So easily that I stopped wondering why I knew how to use a lightsaber, why I could do things with the Force no master ever taught me, why I knew languages…. And then, when I learned who I was, I didn't want to be her, but I was her. I_ am _her. I don't remember half of what she was, but I think like her, I fight like her."_

_She felt his breath on her cheek, his lips next to her ear. His cheek was smooth and that was all wrong for him. His arms tightened around her, sure as a vise._

Now is the part where you're supposed to say you love me, love me as I am, Carth.

_But he said nothing._

_The enormity of what she'd risked, what she'd done to get to this point, made Revan want to face down Malak a hundred times more. Their battle had been simple by comparison._

_XXX_

**Chapter One / Kiss the Sky**

"Wake up."

Something was making a hell of a racket, like fifty prox alarms on a Huttese freighter all at once. Whatever it was interrupted the dream Polla had been having that featured her ex, Therion D'Cainen, being tortured in some kind of weird red and black holovid prison, complete with whips, interrogation droids, and a helpful dozen sents with red laser swords, just standing around waiting to chop bits off.

It was a good dream considering the way Therion had tried to set her up for the failure of that spice run.

Polla Organa chuckled darkly when they cut off his legs for the third time, listening to his comical scream-

 _"Wake up,"_ the voice repeated.

"Go away," she told it and pulled the pillow over her head.

 ** _"Wake up,"_** the stubborn voice insisted again. Weirdly, it seemed to echo through her skull. Someone shook her shoulder. Hard.

Polla Organa opened her eyes to flashing lights and the claxon sound of an alarm.

"The hell?" Her head ached when she sat up, but that was familiar-ever since the head injury where she'd hit the wall two hundred meters up on Janstak's Canyon. The head injury, which had led to the Republic hospital on the warship orbiting Deralia, which had led to Nurse Shan being her nurse, which had led to the Republic recruitment spiel... and then to Polla's enlistment into this fracking war that wasn't even her problem in the first place.

"Surprise." The guy looking down at her had a harsh Rim accent, some kind of Fleet Officer stripes and a very tense expression on his face. He also, Polla noted, had a blaster in his right hand. It wasn't pointed directly at her, but it wasn't far off.

"Trask?"

They were in close quarters on the _Spire,_ so close that they shared bunks with opposing shifts (probably due to the number of fracking Jedi mystics they'd shoved on board); but she could have sworn her bunkie was blonde and kinda steely. This guy had brown skin, but pale, startlingly yellow eyes like he was part Cathar.

_Is that a thing, being part Cathar?_

"Trask," the man repeated, making the word almost a question.

He had thick eyebrows and close-cropped black hair. He'd be handsome, Polla thought, if he looked healthier; but there was a grayish cast to his skin. When he frowned like he was doing now, the lines around his mouth cut like knives, drawing his mouth into a grim expression, maybe even a little scary.

"What have you done to your hair?"

He reached out, as if to brush it out of her eyes, and Polla sat up fast, scooting back out of reach.

"Not so fast, guy! Are you looking for Trask, or for me? We work opposite shifts so he's…" the alarms were really distracting. They made her head hurt even more than usual. "He's probably at work now. You should leave." _Before I shoot you._

Polla looked around for her blaster, but the holster wasn't on top of the pile of clothes she'd worn yesterday and-weirdly, she… she couldn't remember where she'd put it.

_Da would kill me if he knew I forgot where I put my gun. He'll kill me anyways, for enlisting in a Republic war, but if he learns I lost my blaster I'll never hear the end of it-_

And that was when Polla realized she was still in her skivs. Not that she gave a frack, but this not-Trask guy seemed to be eyeing her skin like he'd never seen a woman before. More than a little creepy.

"Trask," he snorted. "Trask Ulgo? Really? The Alderaanian? Is _he_ what life among the Jedi has driven you to?"

"We're not exactly on a first _and_ last name basis, me and Trask." Polla didn't like the way his eyes were looking at her. But she was relieved he was here for Trask and not because he was some kind of insane killer who snuck into women's rooms when they were blissfully asleep. "Can you turn off that fracking alarm? It… it hurts my head."

"No." The leer on his face vanished so fast she wondered if she'd been mistaken. "I didn't just come here as an amusing diversion. The _Endar Spire_ is under attack."

Polla snorted. "Yeah, right. We're in hyperspace. You sure it's not a drill?"

They had a lot of drills in this Republic Fleet, aboard the _Endar Spire_. Like almost every day she had to run through the ship, find Nurse Shan, and stay with her to protect her. Like Nurse Shan needed _Polla Organa_ for protection against _nothing_ when she had a freaking Jedi army. Plus the soldiers? It was kind of ridiculous overkill, considering they were never fighting anything, or landing anywhere, except... except that one time. But that had been... n-nothing, really. Not important.

_That planet wasn't important. The important person is Nurse Shan. When it's an alarm and there's a drill I have to go find her-I have to go find her-_

And Polla _would_ find her as soon as this stranger left.

Polla had only been conscripted into the Republic Navy for like a week… or… maybe a few months, but she already had realized they were a laughingstock.

Da had been right all along. Who knew? The Republic were idiots. _Pathetic fools._

_He's going to kill me. My Da's going to kill me. He must be pissed. That's why I haven't heard from him or Ma since I enlisted-_

"We're not in hyperspace now." The stranger smiled again, a teasing smile, almost flirtatious-maybe sly. His mouth was a little like Therion's-like a knife. "Not anymore. Your ship's under attack."

"Trust me; it's not _my_ ship. Anything this big leans like a ronto on sleep derms. Wouldn't be caught dead flying it. Hey, are you hurt?" There was a charred patch on the jacket of his uniform, like an almost perfectly circular burn. Looked nasty actually; the cloth was stained, but the skin she could see underneath seemed okay.

"Would you care if I was?" His voice was light, but his eyes kept scanning her face as if he was looking for some kind of reaction.

The ship took that moment to lurch violently to one side, sending Polla stumbling across the floor, and into the corner of her footlocker. It collided painfully with her shin. "Oww! What the hell?"

"If your ship's captain continues his foolish attempts to set up a passive orbit around this planet, we will all see hell. Quite soon." The man laughed as if that was funny. "The two interdictors that pulled the _Endar_ _Spire_ out of orbit have set up opposing tractor beams. Currently the _Leviathan_ and _Demon Moon_ are pulling your ship apart." He sounded more amused than horrified. Was it a joke?

"Sith?" Polla snorted. _It's not_ my _ship, asshole._ "Yeah, right. Those has-beens? They… they're fracking idiots."

"True. They're not what they were." Not-Trask moved fast when he wanted to, reaching her side in a heartbeat and taking her arm. "But their efforts will, in a short time, tear this ship to pieces. We should leave."

"I can't."

He raised an eyebrow. It was bisected by a faint scar, very dark above his yellow eyes. "Can't?"

"I can't leave. This ship is safe." _This ship is safe._ How many times has Nurse Shan and Ensign Trask said that? _This ship is safe._ "There's a ton of Jedi. And soldiers. I have to stay here. I'm supposed to stay here. What's your name?"

"Revan," he reached down and pulled her to her feet. His hand was cold, very cold. "You should get dressed quickly. We need to leave."

"Revan," she scoffed, jerking away from him. "Don't feed a load of bantha poo to a banthashitter. _You're_ not Revan. She was a woman. _And_ she's dead."

He stared at her for an uncomfortably long time, long enough for Polla to become aware of her skivs again, and the strange cold in the air.

_Could be a vacuum leak, if he's not lying about the tractor beams. If the hull gets compromised, we're fracked._

"I assumed you were joking," he muttered. "She warned me, but I never thought-"

"Nurse Shan warned you?" Polla nodded. "She warns me about things a lot too. She's nice. Very conscientious. "

"I can barely even sense..." he stepped back slightly, that blaster still held loosely in one hand. "If _he_ sees you like this, or if the others…. Bandon's here. And Beya. Xaset… not all your old friends are still as loyal as I am."

Polla swallowed and took a step backward. "Hey… just putting it out there, but maybe you're fracking nuts? I don't know any of those people."

The ship rocked again, and half the lights cut out entirely. She ran away from him, fumbling with her footlocker, scrambling for clothes.

Her gun wasn't there.

_Da will kill me for being so careless. I had it. I know I had it when I hit the canyon wall-_

"Something might be wrong with the ship," she admitted. "Come with me. Let's go find Nurse Shan."

 _"Nurse..._ Shan." He laughed. "Of course! By all means. Lead the way."

"I will." Polla grabbed a shirt, but in the dark, she'd lost one shoe. Given they were about to die, she abandoned the other too, scrambling to her feet and heading towards the door. It would be locked, of course, it always was, except when Nurse Shan needed something, but-

But this time it opened before she even reached it. _Weird._ Even more strange, the lock looked like it had exploded open.

Polla froze, suddenly aware of the stranger's breath on the back of her neck. His cold hand closed around her shoulder. The other one nudged her hip with the gun.

"Go," he whispered in her ear. "I'm quite interested in the talk we'll have with _Nurse_ Shan."

"Did you do that?" she asked him. "The door is supposed to be locked at all times."

"Did I-what in nine hells have they _done_ to you?" his evil act seemed to crack, as she turned around, pulling out of his grip again, halfway in the hall.

" **Scout Organa?** **Is Ensign Ulgo with you?** "

The comm on Polla's wrist chimed, with a miniaturized figure of a man appearing. Tousled hair, stubble, looked like one of the career poster boys Polla had seen in the officer's mess.

 **"Our hull integrity's down to nothing, and t** **here's a Sith boarding party already aboard** **. Bastila Shan made it out in an escape pod, but she left me strict instructions to get you two off safe. We three are the last in this deck-Sith bastards have sealed everyone else off-"**

Mister Officer continued with his explanation about how they were totally fracked. Over and over. Until Polla wanted to puke.

 _Dying in space. I don't want to die like this._ _Vacuum. Every spacer's worst nightmare-_

"Trask isn't here," she finally interrupted. "But there's… this other ensign came to get me. He's… he might be kind of nuts. I think we'll need Nurse Shan. I need to find her, even if this isn't a drill. Okay?"

" **Another ensign? Well, good. That's… good. We don't have a lot of time. They've got lightsabers; they're cutting through sections-and personnel. Most everyone's pinned down in C-deck, but the Jedi promised reinforcements. The three of us don't have time to wait. Make your way to the escape pods off the bridge. Now."**

"Sure," she said. "I'll-I'll-where's the bridge?"

" **What?"** Republic guy's voice cracked. **"Are you kidding me? They brought you in as some kind of nav jockey, I heard, and you don't-"**

"I know where the bridge is," Ensign Not-Trask whispered in her ear. "Tell him we'll meet him at the escape pods."

 _Don't tell me what to do! I should know where the fracking bridge is; this is a starship! I'm a pilot._ "I'll tell you that we'll meet you at the escape pods," she said out loud. Her voice felt strange and wooden, compared to her emotions.

The guy on her commlink looked like one of those Republic recruiting posters too. And that pissed her off.

_These brave men and women are the heroes of our age. Don't you want to be one of the heroes of our age? Save the Republic. Save the galaxy._

_And even if you say no, they'll drag you along anyways. Kriffing losers._

Polla cut the comm, even though the guy was still talking, something about directions to the bridge. Whatever. Not-Trask said he knew.

"Maybe we should surrender to the Sith," she told the guy who wasn't Trask. "My Da always said the Sith had the right idea. At least about some things."

The alarms rang again in time with her aching skull. She wanted them to stop.

 _Stop,_ she thought at them.

Not-Trask Whatever blinked at her. His nose was curved, like a talon. He had a cleft in his slightly-pointed chin. He shifted the blaster in his hand, holding it awkwardly as if he had no idea what he was doing.

"We need to go," he said, more gently. "Scout… uh, Organa, they've ordered a ship-wide evacuation. You heard the man. The Sith are _boarding-"_

"Oh, I get it." Polla should be afraid, probably, but her head hurt and this was so damned typical with the kind of fracked year she'd already had. Here she was, on her first assignment, and it had already gone wrong. Like the fracking kanna mites and Therion all over again. "You know I'm not even a Republic citizen? I'm from Deralia. Just because I had a head injury and you guys had medics… and then you made me sign on! But you can't tell me what to do! I'm not some kind of conscript. Nurse Shan said I'm a highly trained professional. I know languages. Lots of languages. And… navigation. Like that guy… like that guy said."

_Nurse Shan probably meant to tell me about the navigation later._

"Nurse Shan," he repeated. "Right. She wants you to go. Now. To the escape pods. Like that man said."

"Hold your hessi." She'd only managed to throw on the shirt. She was well aware he was staring at her skivs (even if his cold-eyed Selkath imitation was more creepy than a compliment).

Polla walked back to fish through the footlocker bolted to the wall. A holographic image of an old man and woman was taped to the inside top. They beamed back at her with toothy, frozen smiles. Their heads were shaved at the sides, and their hair identically piled into loose tails on top of their head.

Vaguely ridiculous.

 _Like Bey-_ an aberrant thought, Polla noted, even as she pulled out the more familiar coverall beneath. She dressed fast, still staring at the picture.

The picture was strangely out of place.

 _Beya._ Her mind scattered like a scratched holodisc. She ripped the holo out of its frame and shoved it in her vest pocket, glancing up and seeing a reflection of her own image in the ferraglass porthole.

Hair, shaved at the sides, the top falling into her eyes. She reached for a tie to tie the top knot-

 _I'm so fracking pale._ She looked down at her own body, suddenly dizzy. Her skin looked like it was breaking out in reddish spots on her arms and her eyes were-

"My name is Polla Organa," she muttered to her reflection. It always made her calmer to say it out loud. "My name is Polla Organa. I am a smuggler from Deralia. My name is Polla Organa. I am a smuggler from Deralia…."

"Blast, they've egg-rotted your mind!" Ensign Not-Trask's hand closed around her arm. "Look at me! Look at me!"

"Let go!" She lashed out with a foot, half-tripping him, but the bastard was faster than she expected-really, stupidly fast-like he was stimmed to fracking Sleheyron and back-and then he had both her arms in his grasp, was staring down at her like he-like he was Therion and thought he still had the _right._

"I said, let go," she growled at him. _"Now."_

"You even sound Deralian," he said, like that was a surprise. His eyes were really yellow. Could he be part-Cathar? _Was_ that a thing?

Polla's knee jerked up and got him in the choobs. The resultant relaxing of his hands and startled 'oof' allowed her to step away.

"I am Deralian," she snapped. _Asshole. Just like Therion._ "And on Deralia, we don't frack around."

Instead of looking injured or pissed, the man smiled. "I see."

"Do you?" she snapped. "Because the Jedi will save us. We just need to find Nurse Shan."

"I think we should look for her separately," he murmured. "I may… I may have made a mistake."

"Oh." Was it the kick to the choobs? Polla still didn't regret it. "I'm a crack shot," she offered. _On Trawler deer and targets. On shooting holes on some spacer's kit a millimeter from his stupid lying nose-but I bet I can shoot Sith too._ "Have an extra pistol I could have?"

Not-Trask glanced back and her a thin-lipped smile. "No." He took a step backwards, bowing slightly. "Good-bye, Polla Organa, I don't expect we'll meet again."

"Good riddance." She folded her arms and feigned checking her chron. "Not-Trask whoever you are."

"I'm Davad." He was frowning again, staring at her. "Davad." There was a long pause, as if after practically abducting her, and not being able to shut off the alarm, he expected a compliment for one of the most boring fracking names she'd ever heard.

"It's a nice name?" she finally offered. "What is that, Corellian? My family's from Corellia if you go back like four generations, before they founded the Outlier Colonies-"

"Good-bye," he repeated. "Good luck finding your bridge."

"I don't know where it is." Polla blinked her eyes. When she opened them, Davad was already gone.

"The hell with you then," she mumbled.

The ship rattled ominously. Alarms rang. _Stop,_ she told them in her head. _Stop ringing._

For some reason, that didn't work.

Xxx

The world lived in flashes, in time with her beating heart and the _Spire's_ failing electrical grid.

There was a dead guy, wearing a Republic uniform, about a meter into the hall. Polla hadn't noticed him at first-she'd thought he was just debris-there _was_ debris, scattered all over the hall.

Dead Guy was in pieces.

At least three. And they were still smoldering.

The… the smell hit the back of her throat, and Polla felt herself gag. Her stomach heaved. Behind the first, she saw another body. Only this one had been stripped, as if someone had killed them both and then stolen this one's uniform.

_Or he was in his underwear and barefoot already._

Polla looked down at her own bare feet, totally seeing how that could happen.

Frack, as a smuggler, sometimes you saw bad shit. There'd been that one time, back on Ryloth when she'd accidentally wandered into the backroom of a slave auction, but this… this was….

 _It's just death._ The thought was so detached that it didn't feel like her own.

"I'm going to be sick," she whispered, and was, violently and noisily, behind the bulkhead.

" **This is Captain Carth Onasi,"** the voice on her wrist said. **"What happened to Ensign Ulgo? I was tracking two life signs on your unit. Now I just see yours."**

"He left," she muttered into her wrist. "Wasn't Ulgo anyway. I don't know _who_ he was."

 **"Oh."** Captain Carth Onasi sounded nonplussed. **"Then... this is him... here. I see it now. He's close, close to you, but there's a bunch of Sith between you guys and me. I don't know how much combat training you've had..."**

There was something metal on the floor next to the dead guy. A small snub nose repeater. Polla grabbed it. Captain Obvious kept talking. Blah, blah splice. Blah, blah rewire something...

Dead guy's arm was a meter off from the rest of him. And beyond that-what looked like a blaster rifle.

She _had_ a rifle, had always carried one: a Czerka repeater with a chip on the handle that jammed when you spent the sustaining clip too fast. She'd had it in the speeder… bike… before she hit that canyon wall, trying to impress Seiran Wen, of all people. Like it mattered what some farmer's kid she'd known since they were five thought of her.

A shot winged across the room, with barely a millisecond warning. Polla screamed and dropped to the ground behind a broken crate.

" **You okay?"** Captain Carth Onasi interrupted himself to ask.

_As helpful as dear old Davad. Mister, I-don't-expect-we'll-meet-again. I'll-see-you-in-fracking-hell, Mister Davad._

"I am not okay," Polla whispered to herself. To the comm. To the galaxy. "This is not okay."

**"Scout Organa?"**

"It's Polla," she mumbled.

Another shot winged over her head, then a whole barrage of them. When Polla tilted her head through a crack in the crate, she could see an armored soldier, wearing that silver crap made famous in every anti-Sith newsvid that Nurse Shan had ever made her watch. And the soldier was shooting at her.

"Stop that," she muttered, whispering a prayer to the Grass Priests. She peered around the edge of the crate and fired back with the snub, only to be rewarded with the crate crumpling like plimsi. Something like white-hot fire skimmed her arm and she screamed. "Stop!"

The soldier laughed, a crackling noise through his helmet's speaker.

_You're laughing when I'm dying?_

_No. Not like this!_

Polla closed her eyes, raising the blaster high, and firing in the Sith's direction at random.

_At least I'll go down fighting, Da would be proud even if this is fracking stupid-_

Suddenly, something cracked: a crashing noise, and then one of the conduit pipes running above her head detached itself from the ceiling, sparking dangerously. Sparking-

The pipe fell someplace in front of her, and the Sith's laughter cut out with a scream.

Polla peered cautiously above the bulkhead and saw that the soldier had been electrocuted by the loose converter line.

 _That's lucky,_ she thought, and then felt guilty. _Guilty for the schutta who was trying to kill me?_

She scrambled to her feet, wiping her mouth and went for the bigger gun. The severed hand that still held it didn't seem to want to let go. She had to pry the fingers off. The place where it had been cut from the body was blackened, slightly charred.

_Cauterized. Methodically. Not torn off by a madman at least-_

_Like that's better?_ Polla wanted to puke, but the weight of the rifle was reassuring in her hands.

The ship rocked, the lights flashed. **"Still with me?"** Mister Republic. _Captain_ Republic. **"Scout Organa? Polla?"**

"I think so," Polla muttered. Her arm hurt like frack, but a part of her mind categorized it as inconsequential. _Just a burn._ "Where's the damn bridge?"

" **I'm tracking your position. Bridge is to your left. C** **areful. More life signs ahead. You're gonna need to find some way around-"**

A red laser sight swept through the doorway, and Polla ducked, flattening back down to the ground, rolling for cover.

The beam seemed too slow. Seemed to... _ripple._ It had to be some kind of hallucination, as it made no fracking sense at all that a disrupter could fire that slowly.

Instead of dead, Polla found herself flat on the floor, behind a wall of broken crates.

" **What's your location? Did you find** **Trask? He just patched in to me. Said he's on his way. Said we need to sit tight, sister."**

"I am not your sister. They've got a sniper," Polla told him. "Help?"

" **I'm trying, but Trask is closer. His tracker's practically on top of you-"**

Polla peered above the crate, leveling the blaster rifle carefully.

Normally, on a normal day, when she wasn't on a ship being attacked; when the gun she was shooting wasn't an utter piece of crap, Polla could have handled this, maybe. _Imagine it's just a trawler deer. Just like hunting, and you're safe behind the blind-_

But for some reason, her shots went wild today and the target blurred.

"Hell!" she cursed. "This gun is a piece of crap!"

The door slid open abruptly, bringing an arctic chill with it, like the air around them was suddenly freezing and cold.

Words died in her throat. _Cold, like-_ her mind slipped away from the comparison, like feet skidding on ice. Polla could have no more moved than she could have screamed. The door opened, and death walked in.

Peering through a hole in the cracked crate, she could see that there were two of them, two deaths: one Human and one Duros, the latter's green skin a strange, speckled gray. Both wore robes, not armor, and carried glowing red laser swords-

_They carry sabers. Lightsabers._

"Jedi?" she whispered, almost hopeful, but she knew better.

How many episodes of _Nomi Sunrider and Friends_ had Polla watched on Sixthday mornings as a kid? Enough. Enough to know that these were the _real_ bad guys.

Bad guys always had red lightsabers.

These were Sith. _Real_ Sith. The sniper lifted her rifle out of its brace as if she knew it was no longer needed.

"Hello?" the Human murmured. He was pale, too pale, and almost bald. "Come out, youngling. I can sense your unformed presence. Not the most impressive specimen, but every tool has its use. Lord Malak is making a collection. Come out, little Padawan. Come out-and I'll let you live."

_Malak._

Polla knew the name. She knew the name, because it was famous and she wasn't a fracking idiot who had lived under a rock for the past five years... but for a second, that name distorted into meaningless syllables. _Mal-Ak. Mal-Eym-Eym-_

"Surrender now, child." The Duros had a rusty voice. "Others have. Your masters are doomed, but you may have a better fate."

Living was always preferable to not living. _Da always said the Sith were okay, maybe. Maybe they had the right idea._ Polla wasn't sure what those ideas could be, but they had to be better than death.

"You won't kill me? You promise?" She couldn't see them very well, couldn't see the sniper at all from this angle.

Soft laughter was the only response.

"No! Okay! I surrender. Sure. Me. The pada-whatsit. I surrender!"

Polla scrambled to her feet before she lost her nerve.

_Bluff your way out. Like with Drago the Hutt on Biscayne. No problem. Smile nice, show them the gun but don't point it, don't make any sudden moves at all. Smile. Smile nice. Bluff your way out._

"Excellent. I'm please you see reas-" the Duros broke off mid-sentence.

Polla smiled, holding the blaster rifle above her head, casually dangling it between two fingers, and trying not to freak out. "I am reasonable. Totally reasonable. I surrender. Okay?"

The Human made a little choking noise in his throat.

The Duros deactivated his saber.

A few heartbeats later, so did the Human.

The sniper stood up suddenly, from behind a nest of debris. She was female, small. A Twi'lek under the black targeting helmet that obscured most of her face.

All three of them stood there for another heartbeat.

Then the sniper dropped her rifle. The Duros dropped his laser sword. A detached part of Polla's brain noticed it went out on its own before hitting the ground.

She pushed the hair out of her eyes and stared back at them. "I surrender?" she repeated, dropping the rifle too-to drive the point home.

"Sheris?" The Human seemed the bravest. He was the only one still looking up. Both of the others were suddenly staring at the ground.

Polla glanced behind her to see if a sheris (whatever that was) had suddenly appeared, but there was nothing.

The Human laughed, bitterly, mouth twisting with scorn. "You fools, it's not _her,_ merely Lord Mal-"

Something whizzing and blue bisected his neck, before slashing by Polla's face, close enough that she screamed.

"Polla. Behind me. _Now._ " A man had appeared in the doorway to her left. Robed. The blue thing was back in his hands now-the blue... blue sword-laser. The blue laser sword. The blue... _lightsaber._

Polla obeyed, as though her feet were in charge, not her head.

The Human Sith… he no longer had a head. His body collapsed sickeningly.

She'd been shooting blasters since she was five, but not at _people. Never to kill anyone-_

"Surrender," the man said, amazingly, to the people who'd been trying to kill them a second ago.

The Twi'lek sniper started to kneel, but the Duros shook his head, his eyes a strange yellow-orange in the light-

"Not to you, _Jedi,"_ he practically snarled.

Another explosion rocked the ship; this time, Polla fell back, heard the tell-tale hiss of oxygen escaping.

"No," she mumbled. Every spacer's worst nightmare, being sucked into the deep. "We have to get out of here!"

Something exploded, yellow and white from behind the two Sith. When Polla opened her eyes again, the Duros and Twi'lek were just as dead as the Human-and now two humanoid figures in light-colored robes with more damned laser swords stood there in the smoldering wreckage of a broken blast door.

"There she is!" the smaller one said. "With Trask!"

The woman, half a head taller than Polla, brandished a green laser sword. The kid had a yellow one.

"Who's Trask?" Polla didn't want to look at the dead Sith bodies, but she couldn't help it. The sniper hadn't even been armed. Neither had the Duros- _he dropped his weapon._

The new Jedi kid-Eosian, maybe-stared at Polla, and she glared back at him. He looked away fast.

"Where is Bastila?" Polla's first rescuer asked them.

"She got away," the woman answered. "Master Levrees insisted she evacuate first. He charged us with getting you all to safety."

"Who's Master Lavrees?" Polla interrupted. "Who's Bastila?"

"Whoa," the Eosian kid muttered. "Seriously? You know Bastila Shan. You see her every single day."

"Do you mean Nurse Shan?"

"Let it be, Jaik," the older Jedi (for they could be nothing else) said.

"Nurse Shan," the older male Jedi repeated. "Nurse Shan sent us to you. Look at me, Polla Organa."

She felt… obliged to. His eyes were a faded blue that reminded her of something. It was difficult to even articulate what. She noticed the gray at his temples, the laugh lines on his face.

"There is no Nurse Shan," he whispered. He had to be four meters away, and there were explosions everywhere, but somehow, his words sank into her skull like an echo.

_There is no Nurse Shan. There is no Nurse Shan. No Nurse Shan._

"Huh?"

"Why are you doing that?" The kid again.

"If she _is_ captured, there can be no connection, no confusion, no loyalties for them to abuse-"

The air felt strangely heavy, like an ion storm building.

_There is no Nurse Shan. There is no Nurse Shan. My name is Polla Organa and I am a smuggler from Deralia and there is no-there is only Nurse Shan._

"Bastila Shan is my nurse." Polla snapped. _What the hell?_ "She's nice. She's my friend. Where is she? What the frack have you done with her?"

"Stang," muttered the man.

"Ready to give up, Trask?" the woman sighed. "She's resistant. We have to continually reinforce the transfer-"

"Wait. _You're_ Trask?" The sky-eyed man wasn't wearing the uniform. Polla hadn't recognized him dressed like a Jedi. "You're Trask Ulgo! You're my roommate! Why are you dressed like a Jedi?"

"Yes." Trask nodded, deactivating his laser sword. "I am dressed like a Jedi because I am one."

"Oh." Had she known that before? It made Polla feel fracking stupid, finding out now. "They must be really short on bunk space if they have Jedi bunking with the hired help-"

"Polla," the woman said, as if she had a stick up her ass. Her voice gentled, dripping with fake sympathy. "Let's move to the bridge, before this ship explodes."

"Hey, I've got an idea," Polla suggested. "Why don't we get off this fracking ship before it explodes? Sound good?"

" **This is Captain Carth Onasi,"** her commlink cut in again. **"What's your loc, Scout? Ensign? I'm picking up a bunch of life signs…."**

 _No kidding, Captain Carth Obvious._ "There's a bunch of Jedi here," she noted. "I think they want to stand around and die and not escape. I'll start shooting them in thirty seconds."

 _Don't back down. Like on Biscayne._ Polla kept her fingers steady on her gun.

Trask coughed. "You heard the woman."

The kid Jedi gave a choked laugh. "Rev-"

" _Don't,"_ the woman interrupted. "Trust me. The overlay slips and she goes fugue. It's not pretty."

"You _don't_ know Bastila Shan-not yet, but we must find her," Trask told Polla. "We are the first Jedi you've seen. We are your friends. You want to help us. Your name is Polla Organa. You are a registered smuggler from Deralia, aboard the _Endar Spire._ Our ship is under attack. You have to escape. You _want_ to escape. You want to help Jedi. You need to find Bastila. You need to help _us._ You want to avoid the Sith."

" **What was that about a Sith?"** Onasi again. **"You're cutting in and out. All I got was Bastila and Sith-"**

His interruptions were annoying her. Polla cut him off.

"I know what my name is." Anger spiked, infusing her gut with a strange fearlessness. Why was Trask Ulgo talking to her like she was brain dead? Or a child. "It's Polla Organa, and if you lot are what Jedi are like then it's no fracking wonder the Sith are winning your stupid Republic war-"

"Just come on." One of the other Jedi grabbed her bodily by the arm, pulling Polla behind her like a puppet. "This way."

Xxx

The bridge was blocked by more Sith soldiers. Their visors were all faceless and silver, reflecting the room back at them. Reflecting everything, like fifteen mirrors. The Sith all looked the same: faceless, anonymous. Their weapons leveled simultaneously, a wall of shining, silver, _reflecting-_

"Stand back," Trask murmured to Polla.

"Sure," she muttered, diving behind the nearest chair. _Close your eyes, don't look-_

The three Jedi deflected blast bolts back on their aggressors. Three Jedi, versus a squad of fifteen soldiers… and it wasn't even close.

The soldiers all died. Some of them in pieces. It didn't even take minutes.

_It was a waste. All of this-_

Polla felt another wave of nausea. Sure, she'd been hunting since she was a kid, but this was different. The laser swords _cut_ things. And the smell-

 _Nobody on_ Nomi Sunrider and Friends _ever mentioned the smell._

"I quit," she said.

"Hira?" Trask ignored her, talking to the female Jedi, the one with dark, almost black skin and hair braided tightly to her head, who had immediately gone to the large nav board and was doing something on the communications array.

The bridge showed the extent of the damage to the _Spire_. The map projected on the side of one wall was a mess of flashing red, showing where hull integrity was breached, overlaid with yellow, where power was gone too. The pilot and co-pilot were slumped dead in their seats. Other crewmen looked like they'd been thrown against a wall, and then dropped.

The viewscreen was too full of a grayish blue planet's surface, bristling with installations, faintly etched in green.

 _We're falling,_ Polla noted. _We've lost orbit. We're kriffing plummeting to our deaths._

_I'm a pilot. I can save us._

"I can try and pull us out," Polla ran to the yoke. She'd never flown a ship this big, but how hard could it be? _Beats dying. Beats falling out of the fracking sky-_

Readouts looked bad… her eyes went up, noting the constellations, nearby jump points. The information was useless now-something had pulled them out of hyperdrive, and their engines had suffered complete, catastrophic failures… she could see that from the redlined readouts, the dead patches on the board.

Polla pulled at the yoke, and nothing seemed to change at all. _Because the engines are dead. We're dead in the sky. Dead in the sky and it's a race between being blown to pieces or coming to pieces on the way down-_ "I can fly this," she repeated. It didn't seem true, but she had to try.

"They're holding us here," the kid said. "The ship should have fallen by now. Somehow they're holding us-"

The woman laughed, but it was a hopeless, hollow sound. "They're recruiting, Jaik."

"There's more coming," he said. "Can you… do you feel that? It's so… it's cold."

The kid was right. Polla was suddenly freezing. _More coming. More who? Why does it make it cold?_

"Get her out of here," muttered the female Jedi. " _Now._ Pods are just off the aft door. Down the hall."

"I'll make sure Jaik reaches safety," Trask told her.

"No." Hira shook her head. "I can't hold them alone. And you need to stay with _her."_

"Why did you kill those soldiers?" Polla interrupted. "Can't you Jedi float the ship back into orbit?"

The Eosian kid laughed hollowly. "Maybe _you_ could, if-"

"Don't," the woman said. Quiet, but her voice carried. "Go with Trask, Polla Organa. He will keep you safe."

_That's insane. She'll die. That kid will die. What is the life of one kid worth? It's not worth me, I can fracking fight my own battles!_

"We should all escape, right?" Polla offered. She was an excellent shot. She had… where the frack was her blaster? She'd dropped it. Somewhere. "Look, just give me my blaster back. I-I know I don't have a ton of combat experience, but I'm a great shot-"

_I had the Czerka pistol, I always carried it. Ma must be holding it for me after the accident._

" _Go with Trask,"_ the woman repeated. "He will keep you safe. You will do what he asks."

Trask had stepped back, taken Polla's arm, was leaning over the comm board punching something in, presumably last words. To his wife? Did Jedi get married?

It was an odd thought, almost hysterical.

"I will go with Trask," she said. "He will keep me safe. I will do what he asks."

The temperature seemed to drop another few tics, and all Polla could think about was all the air escaping.

"Watch for fugue," the woman added. "Keep her away from mirrors too." She was one to talk about mirrors, with that polished face. Looked like she'd spent all day in front of one. Polla had better things to do.

The thought was random and felt like it had been inserted.

Xxx

Another hallway. This ship was a maze. "Freighters make a lot of sense," Polla told Trask. "It's like engine room, cargo bay, cargo bay, cockpit. Sometimes a lot of cargo bays. Sometimes even hidden ones." What the frack was wrong with her? They might be about to die and she was rattling on about ships. "You know, my Da was a smuggler too, he used to run goods out this far on the Rim. Always said Taris is a cesspool. Not a lot of profit out this far, when sents would as soon gouge you as look-"

"You know where we are?" Trask sounded surprised. "How did-?"

"I know nav charts like the back of my hand." He still had hold of hers, too tightly, like they were kids, like she was _his_ kid, and he was dragging her along by her heels. "So what was the plan? You guys needed me for languages. Someone… I think someone told me that. Or... or flying? Was it flying?"

"Right. We can… we can worry about that later." His head turned sharply, and the chill seemed to intensify. Polla felt something.

_Light going out on an overtaxed grid._

"That-that kid." Sick feeling in her stomach. "The woman. The other Jedi that we just left. They-they-"

_He was just a kid. She-that woman let him die._

Except the kid wasn't dead. Somehow… somehow Polla knew that too. "The boy-we need to go back for him!"

"We can't. Keep moving."

"I am moving." Polla had never seen this man before, (had she? had she?), but this act, this whole running for their lives thing, it was kind of a bonding experience. She ran to keep up, slightly out of breath.

He stopped suddenly, in front of a door. "Listen to me. You have to find Bastila Shan. When you get to the planet's surface, you have to find Bastila Shan. You can trust Captain Onasi, but you have to find Bastila Shan."

"Bastila Shan?" Her head felt strange, almost feverish. For a second she didn't feel like she was in her own body at all. "I-I had a nurse named Shan, once. I remember."

"No." Both of his hands closed on hers. "No nurse. There was never a nurse. We need to keep moving-"

 _No nurse. But Shan. Find Shan._ _We need to keep moving._

The door in front of them slid open, but there was no one there-only another precipitous drop in temperature.

"I have a bad feeling," Polla whispered. _Really bad, like a shadow across a sun bad-_

And then, like a shadow coming into light, a man emerged, entirely blocking their path.

Trask made a noise in the back of his throat. "Knight Bandon Agare."

The man in front of them had pale skin, and yellow eyes. His dark hair was shaved close to his skull, narrowing to a pointed beard that made him look like a holovid villain. He carried a silver cylinder in each of his hands. And he… the air around him seemed to _shimmer._ Polla could almost taste his bad intentions in the back of her throat.

 _This man_ _could be our deaths. This man is dark. Dangerous-_

"I see," he murmured, almost conversationally. "Apparently, there is more than one prize aboard the Fleet's most heavily-guarded ship."

"Knight Bandon," Trask replied. "I can't let you leave this room." But he'd let go of Polla's hand, pushing he half behind him. She glanced back, looking frantically for anything that looked like a weapon-

"Knight is a title I no longer hold. It is _Lord_ Bandon now, _Darth_ Bandon."

 _Trask has a gun. In his holster._ Trask was holding a lightsaber, so he probably didn't need it. Polla pulled his gun out of his belt before he could stop her.

"Get back," she warned the Sith, training the barrel down on him. He looked up, giving her a clear target. "I won't warn y-" she fired before finishing the sentence, just like Da had always said to do.

XXX

_"You don't want to kill em, Pollie. Just aim for the space above. Pretend you're shooting a goreapple off the top of their head. Get close enough to singe their hair right off-"_

_XXX_

But this time, instead of aiming for the wall behind, Polla sent this shot straight between the Sith's evil yellow-red eyes.

Or would have, except she missed. By at least a meter.

"Frack!"

The Sith looked just as astonished as she did-for a millisecond. His mouth dropped open, and then he laughed, taking a step closer to them. In unison, both of his laser swords ignited. He twirled one, deftly, slowing advancing-

_He'll throw the other. He's going to throw the other one if he gets a clear shot at me and he won't miss-_

"Next time I won't miss," Polla growled at him, trying to make the best of a very bad situation… while still keeping Trask between her and the holovid villain.

"That hall," Trask murmured, soft, but she heard it-reverberating all the way into her bones. "There. On the left. Find Onasi, Polla Organa. Stay with him and Bastila. You must. Find Bastila Shan."

"Bastila?" The Sith chuckled, deep and dark and something in it was terrifying. Somehow it made Polla want to run. All of this made her want to run.

"Come with me," she tugged at Trask Ulgo's arm.

"Go," he murmured, with his eyes still on the Sith. "Now."

The Sith chuckled again, but softer. "Beya's behind me. And Xaset. Arkan is skulking around here too. At least with me, your prize would get a clean death. I am not burdened by sentiment or lust-"

"Yeah," Polla muttered. "Obviously. You're a real catch, Sithguy."

"Polla." Trask repeated. "Go. _Run._ "

And just like that, Polla found herself stumbling towards the door, still clutching the blaster. It slid open under her touch.

"We destroyed the escape pods," Sithguy said. "There's no escape, Re-"

Maybe not, but Polla was already running down the hall. She heard choked noises coming out of her throat and realized they were sobs.

_Lights on an overtaxed grid. Another one winked out. It was cold. So cold._

_Trask. That was Trask. That man killed him. That asshole killed him, and he's gonna kill me. I have to find Onasi. And Bastila. I have to stay with them-_

Something crashed behind her, part of the ceiling. Polla kept running, feet moving like a footrace on Seventhday, like the kath of nightmares were after her, an entire Exchange goon squad-

"Wait. Stop!" A man stepped out from a side of the wall and into her path. "Wait. Is Trask with you?"

"He didn't make it." Polla stared at him, weird echo in her thoughts. His face, like a fracking recruitment poster for the Republic: solid chin, stubbled jaw. His hand was surprisingly warm on the bare skin of her arm.

 _"We_ won't make it if we don't get out of here. They sabotaged all the pods on this side, but I think I've got this one working. If not…" his voice trailed off, looking at her. "If not, it'll be quick."

"I have to find Carth Onasi," she told him. "And Bastila Shan. She's not my nurse. She's a Jedi-I-I think. Are you one. Are you a Jedi?"

"I'm Carth," he said, as if that was an answer. He scanned her face, frowning. "You okay, sister?"

"Not really." Her teeth were chattering. She felt-something felt, like the ship was going, all the air rushing out. _Spacer's worst nightmare._ "We have to get out of here, Carth Onasi. I'm Polla Organa. I can trust you. Trask said I should go with you."

"Yeah," he nodded, and took her hand, pulling them both into the pod. "You sit here, okay?"

Polla found herself pushed into the drop chair, safeties puffing around her, watching as the guy did the same. Only two chairs on the pod. Their knees brushed.

"We're gonna go fast-" they were already going, the gees drowning out anything else he had to say, anything at all, blurring the world into white and gray. Polla closed her eyes.

 _Ma,_ she thought. _Mal, I-_

_XXX_

_"Deralia. An unlikely planet to conquer. Do we need more farmers in our Empire, Revan?"_

_"This is Beya's homeworld. She always told me it was beautiful, and it is."_

_"For now."_ _Davad_ _Arkan slipped his arm around her waist. "Is there to be a ground attack, or is this another one of your tricks, to lure the Republic into false complacency?"_

_"We'll draw them out," she murmured. "The Republic Fleet has used these Outlier worlds as supply bases for long enough."_

_"Ah," he said lightly. "And this trap, today… it wouldn't have anything to do with the Hope of the Republic?"_

_"Do they still have hope?" She chuckled softly under her mask. "Send the signal to_ Leviathan. _Tell Lord Malak to close orbit and join us."_

_"But that eliminates the element of surprise." Arkan sounded surprised himself. "We only have the flagships in this sector. If the Republic brings more forces-"_

_"Do you doubt the might of the Sith?" She pushed him away, turning away, and back to the sleeping planet beneath._

_"I have no doubts left," he muttered. If she turned, she would see him, half crouched-ready to spring, or kneel. "Master."_

**XXX**

A/N You know, I always thought writing one of these Star Forge narratives would be easy, and it is actually not. This is incredibly referential, possibly spoilerific, but hey. Some of the italicized quotes are from my other ficts, as is some of the dialogue. Some of it's from the game. I hope nothing is from another fict, but that's the other hard thing about writing this: I've read so many. Consider it an homage, if my Polla seems referential. I know she's heavily influenced by Jen Sahara, and all the other unreliable mindwiped Sith Lords out there.

It may be worth noting, before you get too attached, this is prequel to Memory, which means it will end badly. For some. Many. Most. But there's hope in darkness, we build rebellions on it, eh?

Thanks for reading, please review!


	2. I Fall to Pieces

_She was dreaming, muttering something in a language he didn't know. She did that a lot—she always had, ever since Taris. It didn't bother him anymore; it was just another thing about her. Like her arched eyebrows or the way she never closed the fresher door, the lost green of her eyes._

_XXX_

**Chapter Two / I Fall to Pieces**

Carth thought they were dead. It didn't even seem possible they'd make it out of the _Spire,_ let alone land right. Read-outs on the pod's primitive nav had all redlined early on in the descent. The woman across from him looked like she'd flatlined too-eyes half shut, showing only slivers of white. The air was too hot, and the pod's thermals were fried. They were going too fast, and whatever was down there wasn't gonna be a bed of mallowstars.

But remarkably, just as he thought he was going to black out, just as the gees kicked into overdrive, the ship stabilized, their trajectory smoothing into an even arc. They came in hard and fast, twisting like a manka by the tail, but they came in right; landing open enough that the stabilizers hit, taking up most of the shock.

_I think we might make it. It's a mir-_

_Xxx_

_That was one hell of a landing._

Carth's eyes snapped open. He'd blacked out. No telling how long he'd been unconscious, but the pod had stopped.

 _Either the afterlife or Taris. Made it through another fall out of the sky._ How many did that make now? Eleven? Not that Carth was counting.

Curved dome above his head, gray durasteel. Head locked in place, crash belts strapped over his shoulders. Faint light filtered through a crack in their pod. The air from outside stank to high heaven. Across from him, the woman he'd saved twitched in her sleep, barely visible in the dim light, but breathing. Definitely breathing.

 _So this is Taris._ His limbs felt frozen. _This is Taris, and we're not dead._

Carth didn't know much about Taris, except the nobles kept their Upper City pristine. Had some kind of Human separatist movement, he'd heard, kept the non-Human races boxed up below. Oh, and if that didn't make it lovely enough, Taris also was occupied by the Sith.

Taris had been one of the first Revan and Malak had taken. It had a standing military, strong defenses, but after seeing what had happened on Telos, those brave soldiers had given it all up without a fight, let the former heroes and their armada roll right in.

_Revan and Malak, they'd been the best the galaxy had to offer, right up until they'd become the worst-_

Accented Basic interrupted his thoughts. Two voices. Sounded like they were arguing over spoils. Took Carth another beat to realize the spoils were him and the woman. His hand crept down to his blaster, as his eyes cracked half open. Sun-no, some kind of widebeam-was shining into the now-open hatch.

He looked across at her, his fellow survivor, the woman who'd sounded like she was brain-damaged _before_ they'd fallen from the sky. She was a mess. Looked like she'd had a nosebleed going down, a bad head wound, and her lips were nearly white. But she was alive. Her eyes fluttered once. "Eeshay," she mumbled suddenly. "Maleye korroh see. No. Esta deem! Trakellen. Sikuth-"

"Hear that? You argue, they awake!" The voice outside was male. Rim accent, maybe local.

_We survived a crash like that. We can't die in the first five minutes!_

That was Carth's first thought when the two helmeted and visored heads cracked open the hatch. He kept his eyes half-closed, feigning unconsciousness. _Making it easier for them to shoot you._ But what could he do? There'd been no time to break the restraints.

_Sith. These are those Sith on this freaking planet that's everyone's talking about-_

"Don't move," one of them ordered, brandishing a nasty-looking snub disruptor at Carth.

He opened his eyes, trying to feign helplessness at least. "Wouldn't dream of it." Still in crash restraints, there was no way he'd make it to the guns on his belt… but the hold-out tucked in his boot was a possibilty. Maybe….

"No!" the woman across from him muttered. "Get out! Get out! Nar'kellan Shirmok Tai! You fracking loser!" Her eyes were still closed. Half of her face was bloody. There was a cut on her head, bleeding enough to stain her dark hair red.

"Shakorr…" the Sith holding the pistol jerked his head in her direction. "Cover that one."

"Sure, I-holy… blastballs!" The second Sith nearly dropped his weapon, fumbling with it. "Look-"

"What?" The other one snapped. His head turned, away from Carth. Both of them now looking at _her,_ the unconscious woman.

She was struggling in her restraints. "Ucah'alla y nik! _Rysya_ Mandalore phar ech nhi' Republik infi! Nhi! Nhi Mandalore!"

Carth dove for the holdout, half expecting to feel his insides turned to jelly any sec by one of their disruptors-n _o time._ He brought the weapon to bear.

"Is it Sheris-? Lor-" the man never finished his sentence.

One. Two. The slugs hit their targets exact, piercing the armored plating on their throats like cheap plimfoam. As designed. Nasty, but so was this bleeding war.

Carth finished unbuckling his restraints and stood up, pushing their bodies to the side.

"No," his fellow survivor murmured again. Blood had made a mask of her face now. Her eyes were only narrow slips of white, still half open and rolled up. She twitched like she was having some kind of seizure. "Issrakay? Mal?"

Carth checked her pulse. Despite her battered appearance, it was strong and steady. _Not gonna die on my watch just yet. I suppose that's good._

"Thanks for the assist, kid. Guess whatever you told them worked." _Whatever you told them in_ _… Mandalorian?_ _I'll wo_ _rry about that later._ "Let's get you out of here." _And then what?_ At least she looked light. Carth's entire body felt like one long bruise.

They'd landed in some kind of waste recycling facility, and all the junk had helped cushion their fall. _Lucky._

His unconscious fellow survivor was heavier than she looked. There was no time to think too much about _how_ to escape, Carth just had to do it, keep moving forward. _One foot in front of the other, soldier._ Across the pit was a yellow access hatch. Carth headed towards it, the woman half over his shoulder in a modified battle man's carry.

Xxx

The creamy trace of her spine followed the curve of the white, circular bed, like overlapping tiles on game of ryss. Her hair was spilled effortless, loose and artful, a red banner across that perfect, pale back. She had one hand poised, so perfectly supporting her weight that it might have been posed there. Posed and prized, just for him.

"My Lord?" Sheris turned towards him with that faint, mocking smile on her lips. The smile, exact. "I was waiting for you on the _Bright._ But I grew cold."

Her hair was beautiful, like sunset, a bonfire, like blood. In the open ferraglass reflection of the viewport, it was _her_ reflection that stared back: cool and serene. With nothing of innocence left.

"Sherisss." Her name came out in a mechanical hiss through his voder, vibrating against the alumoid edges of his artificial jaw.

"Malak." She turned her head, showing him that perfect profile, swoop of her nose, delicately arched eyebrows, graceful as birds. Wide green eyes stared up at him, thickly framed by red lashes.

She'd used to darken them with cosmet, until he made her stop.

Red had never darkened them, rarely painted her face at all, except when expected for some formal function. Red had rarely bothered to curl her hair. Her vanity had been well-disguised, more concerned with delusions of her own power than visual artifice.

Sheris was naked entirely, and Malak's hands dropped to his belt. It had been nearly a year since he'd killed his wife and he had begun to forget the difference.

Xxx

"You let her _go?_ Just like that?" Bandon had an ugly smirk on his face, looking up from the feeds.

They'd locked into the _Endar Spire,_ pulling the smaller hammerhead into the _Leviathan's_ maw like into the jaws of a firaxan. Davad appreciated the conservation of a valuable resource, but the security footage still existing from the _Endar Spire's_ dormitory cameras was… an unfortunate mischance.

"I assumed she'd die well enough on her own. The pods _were_ sabotaged. "

"Some might wonder at your loyalties."

Davad ignored the brat, spearing another piece of nerf with his knife. The delicious taste made his mouth water, his senses sing. He was starving. He took another bite, chewing more carefully, before responding. "What did Master Ulgo tell you?"

"Not enough before I broke him. There was a Jedi plot."

"No," Davad deadpanned, but poor Bandon didn't get the joke. "Should have left him alive. Where's Malak?"

There was a chance he could salvage this. But only if _Davad_ was the one to tell Malak. And not the other way round.

"With _her."_ Bandon sneered. "Her shuttle arrived yesterday from the _Grave."_

The _Grave Bright_ was an aptly named ship, Davad thought, not for the first time.

His stomach growled, and he waved at the nearby serving droid to bring another plate. Brandon's was almost untouched.

"You should eat something," Davad told him. "You look like shit."

The man's yellow eyes glared back at him. "I didn't come here to be taunted."

"No. I know. You came for information. You want to tell Malak yourself. Of course, he's rather unpredictable. He might strangle you. Wouldn't be the first time our Lord strangled a messenger." Davad kept his voice unconcerned, shoving another succulent slice in his mouth, chewing carefully while he watched the other man burn. "Losing Shan was a blow enough, but Malak never _had_ her. "However, Lord Revan, in the hands of the Jedi… with their claws in her mind… there's no telling." He laughed. "You know, you're right. I should have killed her."

Those unmistakable eyes, staring at him blankly, all the light in them gone out.

_I should have killed you, Rev._

Xxx

" _Go on; I like watching you crawl."_

_She stood over him like a colossus. Standing, she was taller than he was, and that seemed… right now. As right as this._

_He could see his reflection in the mask of her face._

_She pushed back her hood, revealing the thinning ruin of her hair, the oddly vulnerable shape of her delicate skull. His breath caught as she removed the mask: the movement as strangely sensual a gesture as he had once found the innocent nape of her neck, turned from him unaware, turned always toward_ Malak.

_An eyebrow arched, delicate and frail as a bird's wing above her bilious, yellow eyes._ _Her teeth bared in a smile through her perfect lips, and she let the mask fall, clattering to the floor, her hand moving to the nape of her neck, the buckles of her robe-_

_He hungered for her, as sharply and savagely as the beasts he used to ride in the Dxun winds between the Demon's Moon and home._

" _I would have made you a queen," his voice felt hoarse and thick._

" _Don't speak." She frowned, eyes going distant. Davad lay before her, but she was thinking of him, her Coruscanti ruin._

_Xxx_

"You have a hard-on right now for her. Still?" Bandon jeered. "Wipe the fracking drool off your chin, Arkan."

Davad felt his teeth pulled back from his lips. The meat in his mouth turned to ash, and he spit it out. "I remember how you cried when we killed your Master, _Padawan._ Don't speak of things you were too young to understand."

"Too young?" Bandon _was_ young, and right now he looked it. All bravado and no brains at all. He pushed back from the table, stood, one hand on his saber. "I'm not too young to kill you, Beast-lord." He scoffed. "Why don't you slink back to your cave and cry about her some more?"

Davad stood up too. "I plucked you from Korriban; I can send you back just as easily." He smiled. "Maybe in pieces. Uln is always looking for experimental subjects."

Bandon smiled slowly as if this was what he'd wanted all along. His lightsaber ignited.

The beast roared, and this time, Davad heeded its call.

Xxx

Padawan Jaik Sensa, formerly of the _Endar Spire,_ was barely alive, a mere spark, but Beya Organa thought he would survive. The worst of his injuries, the severed hand, had already been replaced by a prosthesis and packed in kolto. The rest… the rest could wait until he awoke and answered her questions.

Their dossiers on members of the Order were extensive. Jaik had been apprenticed at four, originally from a merchant family on Balmorra. Eosian on his mother's side, he was fifteen now. Perfect fodder for the Korriban crucible, if he survived _her_ interrogation.

Before the _Spire_ had fallen, they'd collected seventeen Jedi still living. Mostly Padawans. Masters had a certain inflexible rigidity to conversion that was impossible to break; and Knights… well, there weren't very many Knights left.

_Only us. The Order's golden children, forging a new order in the ashes of the old-_

The clash of sabers interrupted her thoughts. _Another duel?_ She glanced at the chron. _Oh. Of course. It's time for lunch._

Competition among Sith was commonplace enough to be beneath notice, but the cafeteria always seemed to inspire more conflict than it sated-especially, Beya had noted, when Arkan was aboard _their_ ship and not his own _Demon Moon._

"It's her fault," the child whispered.

Beya glanced at him. "Awake already, Jaik?" She was pleased.

"Yes. Did you kill her?"

"Your master? Hira Kiteen? Not personally. Didn't you see? I believe Xaset had the honor."

"I'll kill him," the child vowed.

"Maybe." She smiled. Such an easy turn. It was like the Jedi didn't even try anymore, rot eating them from within. "You need to become stronger first."

"Did you kill her?" he repeated.

Beya walked over to him, watching as he took in her face, saw him flinch as he felt her strength. "Are you addled? Xaset killed your master, boy."

"I meant _her."_ His lip curled. " _Revan._ "

"Revan…?" She started to laugh, at the absurdity. "Our Lord Malak killed Revan; although, in the Republic, I believe they say it was Bastila Shan."

"No." His mouth twisted. "I saw her. On the ship."

"I didn't realize Malak had sent Sheris with us." A part of her raged that he'd risked his lover on such a dangerous mission, but it was a part of her that she tamped down quickly.

Sentimental Sith were soon dead ones.

"No," he repeated. "Master Hira was… sometimes I helped. It never worked. We kept wiping her over and over but it never worked. We tried _everything._ She kept coming back. It got worse and worse. Every time she saw a mirror, or a saber, or heard about the wars-"

"What are you babbling on about?" _Wiping?_ _Master Hira?_

"We took her to Dantooine and it didn't even _work._ "

Clash of sabers again. Shouts. A crashing noise from the cafeteria.

_Animals. Mad kath. But there's strength there. And we need that to win. We need to win this war._

That truth remained, even if Beya had forgotten why. The reason no longer mattered, not in the face of true strength. Power was its own reward.

"Who?" she asked slowly. Later, she realized that was when she knew already, knew this boy didn't mean it was his poor dead master who had been wiped. "Who did you take to Dantooine? Who was… wiped?"

"Revan," the boy spat. "Force-damned Revan Starfire, Dark Lord of the Si-"

Her saber slashed across his throat.

It was a painless way to die. He was only a child; he deserved that much.

Xxx

Polla Organa's dreams were nightmares. It was the first thing Carth had learned about her. Nightmares in… at least a dozen languages. Some Carth recognized, and some sounded like the back of a hoverbus exhaust pipe belching, but 'no,' was pretty clear in all of them.

Whatever her nightmares were about, Polla Organa obviously wanted them to stop.

The second thing Carth learned about his unconscious roommate was that she wasn't a natural brunette-certain, awkward realities made that clear early on.

The third was that she wore a man's standard small, in shirts and trousers, a size sept shoe. Her own clothes were too battered to be usable, except maybe the vest; but he'd traded some of the pod's medical supplies with an Ithorian swindler in the Taris Lower City for a few changes for both of them. His own new civs felt too loose and too uncomfortable at the same time. How long since he'd worn civilian gear anywhere?

_No point. Never thought I'd need to wear it again, never thought I'd see anything but the hull of a ship before the end-_

The fourth thing Carth learned was that Scout Organa had a tolerance for sedatives. A huge one. The doc he'd gotten to come look at her (recommended by Gaz, the Ithorian), had tried half a dozen types and combos to get her calm. Nothing worked.

Xxx

"Smuggler, huh?" The doc frowned. "Probably an addict." He rolled up her sleeves like he was checking for injection ports, but the only thing they found was a fading red scar on her left arm. "I can't waste any more drugs on her. We've got others… men in real pain. Ones I can help-"

The smuggler twitched, yanking her arm back. Her eyes rolled under their lids. Carth had still never seen them open-not since the Spire-but he had a memory of a vivid green, almost too hard to be real. She'd seemed a simpleton back then, maybe a little crazy, but at least she'd been awake.

"Ishmay. Lekeen. Aryun. Malachor. Avedin vishate nah! Aveedin vishate NAAH!" She shook. "No! You can't… can't win."

"Basic," the doc noted. "You catch the other one?"

"Not that one. There's been a few." Mandalorian was one he'd never forget. She'd cursed at someone in it for nearly an hour.

 _Could_ she be Manda? She had no tattoos… wouldn't that be ironic.?Saving a Mandalorian, after all those years spent shooting them out of the sky.

After Revan and Malak had broken their might, the clans had scattered across the galaxy. Mercs on practically every planet. They even hired out as Republic fighters now. Carth didn't like it any more than any other flyer he knew, but they made good cannon fire. Even enjoyed it, the kind of bastards they were.

"If she's not an addict, and the drugs don't work…" the man leaned over, peeling back one of her eyelids. "Huh," he commented, shining a light into the woman's eye. It was green, faded in the dim light. "No pupillary response at all. Sure she's not brain dead?"

"You just heard her talk." Carth was starting to wonder if this loser was even a doc at all.

"Get her scanned," the man suggested. "Zelka Forn in the Upper City. Had a clinic up there. He'll do it. Don't tell him I sent you. Used to work there, 'til he fired me."

"No kidding." Carth bit back a harder response.

"No kidding." The man shrugged. "Forn's real helpful, always likes helping you Republic types."

Carth felt a chill. "I never said we were Republic." He'd tossed _everything_ with an insignia, everything military, even down to his shoes and skivs.

"Head injury, not from around here. Do I look stupid?" The man snorted. "She's Deralian, and you're… you've got one of those farm accents. Can never keep the Rim colonies straight."

"It doesn't matter." Carth let his hand fall on his blaster. "Get out."

"Hey. Just making conversation." The man shrugged, backing away slow.

The second the door slid shut behind them, Carth had started to pack their kit.

"Genoharddon," muttered the Deralian. "Therion. Asshole."

"You tell em, sis!" Carth sighed, and slung the pack over his shoulder, lifted her in his arms. She was long-limbed and floppy, heavier than she looked.

He wasn't sure what it meant about the neighborhood when no one blinked an eyestalk at a man carrying an unconscious, bloody woman in his arms; but they weren't exactly choosers.

_XXX_

The _Endar Spire_ shouldn't have come anywhere _near_ Taris. Their mission had been to go to some forest world in the backend of beyond. Them, and the rest of the so-called Jedi Battle Fleet: nine capital ships under High Admiral Forn Dodonna's command.

Just like old times, with Jedi calling the real shots.

Jedi Battle Fleet, that was a joke if Carth had ever heard one.

Back when the wars had begun, back when the Mandalorians began their attacks on Eos, Althir and all the rest; the Republic Navy had put Jedi on all its capital ships as a way to sense out their hidden enemies. Had worked too-like a damn charm.

Carth still remembered the sense of awe he'd had the first time he saw one: she had been little more than a kid, but they'd called her a Jedi Knight, an honorary General. General Knight Pando. Short as the dickens, even for a Rodian.

He'd never known her first name.

She was dead now. A lot of good people were…and that was a road he was going to avoid.

He'd changed apartments after the run-in with Doc Gurney; now they were one level down, the only Humans in a sea of Twi'lek, Duros, and Rodian faces. The water barely worked and the power was sporadic. There were rumors of some kind of plague running wild… and even wilder rumors that it wasn't a plague at all; but some kind of virus dreamed up in a lab that turned sentients into monsters.

Sents into monsters? Carth could've laughed. In his experience, most sents weren't that far off.

Xxx

Malak watched the footage silently, seething with fury. They'd cut and shaved the woman's hair in a barbaric fashion, dressed her as a half-clothed street urchin, but she still moved like _her:_ brash and arrogant; as unaware of her grace as a planet was to its orbital satellites.

_Revan. Red. Master. My wife._

"You should have come to me immediately, Arkan," he muttered. "The trail is colder now."

"Revan had one duplicate made that we know about," suggested the woman. Beya Organa. Her dark hair was loose and long now, but she'd worn it like a Deralian for years. Like Revan's hair now in the holostill. "This could be another. We all felt… we felt her death."

They had. One last scream in the Force. It had half-deafened Malak, sent him unconscious, and when he awoke for a moment he wasn't sure which one of them had died.

For another moment, he wasn't sure which he had wanted.

_You tried to kill me, Red._

He should feel triumph for his success, his victory. But it wasn't complete. Not until they held the Core, not until he gripped Coruscant's dark pearl in his hand, and squeezed, taking his rightful place in the Senate, bringing the Republic to leash, the Senators and Jedi Council both mere ash beneath his feet...

_She promised to see you in ashes, and I will._

"It was her," Davad said. Darth Arkan. They'd been friends, long ago _. Long ago, and that time is gone._ "But changed. She didn't know me." He sounded surprised.

"How did _you_ know?" Malak demanded. "How did you know to find her?"

"A chance encounter."

 _A lie._ Arkan and the woman had come out of what looked like a dormitory bunk. No footage of the room itself, but there was in the hall. In the hall: Revan's face, caught by the camera, looking up at the Beast-Lord. Her eyes wide and-and it was impossible to read any expression in the grain of the feed. And Malak had sensed _nothing._ Nothing of her _there_ at all.

Nothing, when once they'd been close enough for him to feel her dream across a sector.

"And you, Beya? Another chance encounter?"

"No." The Deralian spat on the ground. "My prospect confessed. He blamed her for the death of his master."

"I will question him myself."

Something in her eyes glittered. "Impossible. He died of his injuries."

_Lie. Again, another lie._

Did they know they were so easily opened? Malak could not read their thoughts-not entirely-but he still had his gift for gleaning intent.

He would allow them their falsehoods. For now. (Although they begged further discovery.) Despite the small lies, these two were still loyal.

Of course they were. Sith were nothing without attachments. And Malak was all they had left.

"And so. _Revan_ took the redemption." Bitter irony choked his throat.

 _Redemption._ The secret eating away at the heart of the Order. Jedi rose and fell, almost cyclically. But their power, their knowledge… it could not be squandered. And so. _Waste not, want not._ Memories replaced. Death with light. Past lives of exemplars merged to present fallen ones-

There was an entire cadre of masters from the Exar Kun wars the Jedi trotted out for Days of Remembrance every year. All of them scarred and twisted composites, shells of the sentients they'd been.

 _Even my own master Jopheena. A woman who had never existed. Would you have offered it to me, Master, if it had been me in your grasp and not_ her? _Is it the Sith'ae'rah you wished to preserve? Selfish, even in your damned mercy…._

Davad coughed, exchanging a glance with Beya, and Malak realized he had been silent for too long.

"Who?" he asked. "Which ancient master has my wife's body now?" His thoughts were strange, a mix of scorn-and still, desire.

Davad coughed again, either a sound of distress or amusement. "My Lord. I sensed… I sensed no Force at all."

"She was _blocked?_ They stripped the Force from her mind? _"_ Fury spiked in his heart: for the waste of the woman he'd tried to kill and the Jedi hypocrisy that had ruined her after. _Jedi fools, they piss on their own redemption._ "They gave her a Jedi's memories, then stripped her like they did Meetra Surik?" It was… remarkably cruel of them.

Malak almost wished he had thought of it himself. _If we possessed the ability to remove the Force at will from our enemies…._ How quick, both Coruscant and Kaas could be brought to heel.

Davad shrugged. "She insisted her name was Polla Organa, and that she was a Deralian smuggler. She seemed to have no memory of a Jedi's life at all. Quite honestly, I assumed she'd be killed in combat. She was entirely hapless."

"But you let her live," Beya sneered.

 _Beya the Betrayer._ Malak did not know what had triggered the Deralian's transfer of loyalty from her closest childhood friend to him; but it had been Beya who gave warning of _Revan's_ planned attack against Malak. It had been Beya who gave him the means to strike first, and it was Beya he had to thank for his triumph over his old master.

He trusted her loyalties now above Arkan.

"There was no sport in her death." Arkan's feigned carelessness fooled none of them. There was dried blood on his teeth, flaked around his lips.

Malak had been informed that Arkan had taken a chunk out of their latest Korriban initiate's arm, the boy, Bandon Agare. _With his teeth._

Bandon would survive the scar. It was almost amusing.

"Who else knows?" Malak asked, standing up from the table and walking over to the holographic projection of the planet beneath them. "Who else knows of this? Besides the Jedi… the remaining Jedi."

"Bandon," Davad said. "He provided me the security footage."

_Provided it to you and not me. Attempted to blackmail you with it._

Malak would have to have a word with the Sith Academy tutors about their curriculum if this was what passed for cunning in their new recruits.

_I would hire teachers for my disciples from the Senate Academies, if they didn't screen out Force sensitivity as a matter of course. A null would last five minutes in my Academy on Dreshdae. As by my design-_

"Question the other survivors. Find out what you can. I will send Bandon to the planet's surface to hunt for Shan. Remember Bastila Shan?" Malak chuckled. "Touching as a reunion with my broken master would be, _Shan_ is the prize. The planet is quarantined. We will find Shan first. No need to allocate resources for a mind-wiped _null..._ even if she does possess my wife's... physical attributes." He stared hard at Arkan, until the man's yellow eyes turned to the floor, a kicked kath. "I have no need for another copy, but we need to know the Jedi's true intentions. Was this merely punishment? Or some deeper game afoot?"

"As you say," Davad muttered. _Lie._ For Arkan, Shan would never be enough.

Malak had more long-term goals. Revan's obsession with her plague (and his death) had been disruptive to their New Order. In her absence, he was fast-bringing a new doctrine of strength and unity to the galaxy.

"What about you, Beya?"

"My Lord?" Her head was bowed, staring at the steeple of her hands, presumably lost in thought. Memories of dear old _Rev?_ Or the ones they'd forged later, with war and Mandalorian blood? "What was your question?"

"Polla Organa. A Deralian smuggler. Have there ever been any other Deralian Jedi? I was under the impression you were an outlier."

"Polla Organa is about as common a name on Deralia as Jain Antilles is on Coruscant. There have been _some_ Deralian Jedi. We test for Force-sensitivity as part of school screening." Beya smiled. "That's how I came to the Jedi _._ You remember. _"_

 _The sentiment and conceits of our bygone youth._ Yes, Malak remembered.

XXX

_The sidewalk cantina was open, too open. Public. But the patrons were used to seeing Jedi by now. They'd been coming here for years, Padawans on the verge of their trials. Coming to satisfy needs not granted in the Temple. An unspoken, allowable rule-as long as those needs were not becalmed between their own kind._

_Revan's loose hair was a flame down her back. She was sitting on his lap, legs askew, a rare carelessness for them both. Her mouth was hot and open and sweet, and he could not stop devouring it._

_But reason_ had _to prevail. No matter what they did in private, (and it was extensive), it should not be done here. Not like this._

_"Do you want the whole planet to find out about us?" he warned, finally catching his breath. At that moment, he would have set the world ablaze for her smile; but in this place, with his own station constantly in question-not to mention hers-this was madness._

_Malak found that he did not care._

_"I want the whole galaxy to know how much I love you," she declared.  
_   
_"Keep carrying on like this and the whole galaxy will know." Beya Organa was a golden-skinned girl with black hair in a Deralian topknot, already knighted. She rolled her eyes._

_"Frack the galaxy," Malak announced. "We leave for Malachor tomorrow with Vrook and we'll be cooped up on a ship for weeks."_

_"We'll have to find some way of entertaining ourselves." Red laughed, so careless. She, who was never careless-and that laughter had been no ruse, no trap-just pure joy for the both of them. It was, he thought later, perhaps the last time things were simple, duracrete, clean... for either of them. More joyous moments had followed (now a great source of power for him-his rage fueled by their loss); but those had all come with a price._

_In this one memory, they had been free._

_"I'm going to find Davad and 'Tina," the Deralian said, getting up from the table. "if I don't see you before you leave, good luck and may the Force guide you."_

_"May the Force keep us from getting sand in places there should be no sand," Revan chuckled, breath warm against his ear. "From what I've read about Mandalore, that will be the_ real _test of our knighthood."_

" _Come here," he urged, pulling her back. Eyes were upon them, it was too public a place, but in this most perfect, simple moment, Malak D'Reev no longer cared._

XXX

The image of Taris shimmered before him, outlined by read-outs of its sectors, populations, troop positions, news broadcasts. His eyes scanned the data, noting the chatter about escape pods, rumors about plague in the Lower City, the Under City... perpetual rumors of rebellions... the normal gang violence that kept the masses entertained...

"Perhaps the Jedi meant the Organa surname as an homage to your merits, Beya," Davad broke into Malak's thoughts, as he had once tried to break into much more.

Malak felt his fists curl, at the man's impudence. _Jealousy._ It was a useful tool, even in his own mind.

Beya's voice mocked the Beast-Lord, sharing Malak's sentiment. "Jealous they didn't make her an Onderonite princess?"

"Revan is dead," Malak reminded them, not even turning to look back at them, his former friends, still sitting at his table.

Even without looking, he knew they were staring daggers at each other, honing their hate upon their shared past and their own lost conviction.

 _You were both too weak to hold your own needs. That is why I hold you._ "Find what you can from our Jedi captives, and report back to me."

Malak stared at the map of Taris, rotating it slowly, while they muttered their acquiescence and departed. Somewhere below was Bastila Shan, Hope of the Republic with her Battle Meditation. And also, it seemed, the broken shell of the woman who had brought them all to this.

_Bastila Shan and her Battle Meditation. The broken shell of my wife. A false equivalence that I will not choose between._

Xxx

"Wake up." A hand shook her shoulder.

Waking up was like crawling through a nest of eridu, struggling to surface.

"I-" Polla's eyes snapped open.

There was a man with a worried face staring down at her. His face needed a shave, his eyebrows knit in a way that made his eyes squint, half-obscured by the hair.

_I need to see his face. I need to see his eyes, I-_

"Seiran-?"

For a second Polla almost thought it was Seiran, the guy who'd convinced her to fly the canyon loop in the first place. But no, this guy had a square face with more lines in it.

"Trask? Ensign Jedi Trask?"

"You said he didn't make it." The gentle smile on the man's face receded, so quickly she wondered if it had been real before.

 _Trask didn't make it._ Echo in her skull. She blinked. "Oh. We need to find Bastila Shan."

"Right ahead of you there, sister. You… you had a pretty bad knock to the head. You've been out for a week."

"My name is Polla Organa. I'm a Deralian smuggler."

"Might not want to go bragging about that. From what I hear, Sith take a dim view on smuggling." His smile was quizzical as if he was trying to make a joke.

"Sith." Her mind slipped, images of black robes and red blades and... and eyes. _Eyes._ "We have to avoid the Sith. We have to avoid the Sith and find Bastila Shan and Carth Onasi."

 _"I'm_ Carth." Now his smile was rueful, humoring her. "So we've found me already. I'm Carth Onasi and you're…"

"I'm Polla Organa," she repeated. "Registered smuggler. At your service."

"I know who you are. _Registered_ … smuggler?" He had stubble and eyes the color of Deralian wheat, and now a scowl, twisting that pretty mouth. Republic types. Always sticks in the hyperdrive.

"Yes," she said slowly. He loomed above her. "Do you have a problem with smugglers?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Not as long as you don't get us arrested."

"I see you read my file?" Polla tried to laugh. Therion was an asshole.

"What?" He frowned. It made him look older, made the planes of his face seem less pretty-boy hotshot.

It made him more attractive. Polla Organa was done with pretty-boy-hotshots. "Nothing, don't get your unders in a twist—"

"Okay, okay." He held his hands up, backing off.

Was he… mocking her? _Insolent cretin!_ She sat up, bringing another wage of pain ringing through her skull. She stood up, and that was even worse.

"I'm sorry, I seem to have hit my head. Hurt my head. My head's.…"

"Yeah, I had someone take a look a few days ago." He grimaced. "Wasn't sure you were gonna make it, to be honest. We crashed pretty hard. I think you got the worst of it."

"We need to get back to the ship, it's safe there." Standing, she only had to angle her head slightly to see his eyes. They were brown. Worried. Not at all yellow. Or red.

_Why did I think-_

"Stars," Captain Onasi muttered. "Why don't you sit down? Eat something. I… I'll run through it again. Okay?"

"Okay." There was a puffy hydroderm on her arm and another one next to it that looked like kolto. Polla peeled them both off and dropped them on the floor.

"Hey!" He said. "You might… you might still need those!"

"No." She shook her head. "I'm better. Where's Bastila Shan?"

He started to talk again. He talked too much. Polla waited until he was finished before asking the next question.

_Should have just taken me back to the ship. It's safe there._

_Xxx_

It took Carth about ten repetitions before any facts seemed to sink into Polla Organa's brain; and even then she followed him around the apartment like a pet loth cat, peppering him with questions that only seemed to have one set of responses. He'd answer her questions and she'd tell him again: her name, her occupation, her home planet, that the _Endar Spire_ was a safe space _,_ that he was a trustworthy guy (somehow not flattering), and they needed to find Bastila Shan.

Oh, and she knew Sith were bad. _That_ was a relief.

It was damned hard not to be annoyed, but he'd seen this before. The Force could do terrible things to a mind. They'd liberated a few prisoners that had been interrogated by Sith on Endor, about a year ago. They'd been like this too. Like they'd been pushed. One guy had ended up offing himself. The others had gotten over it. Mostly. Far as Carth knew. He'd been transferred to the Jedi Fleet soon after, assigned to their great hope, Bastila Shan. Kid was only about nineteen and too serious for her own good, going by her inspirational speeches in the officer's lounge.

But under her command… well, he'd _heard_ Battle Meditation was a thing to see. But Bastila had never had a chance to use it, between sitting in orbit around Dantooine and this jump that was supposed to take them to a world called Edean, but had left them stranded and separated from the rest of the Fleet instead. The only thing Carth had _seen_ was a bunch of Jedi Masters packing Bastila and a few other Jedi into an escape pod the second the first Sith ship was sighted, then sending Carth off to fetch Master Ulgo and some patient of his, and then….

Well, and then they'd lost... they'd lost everything. So many dead, and for what?

Carth had been suspicious of this Polla Organa at first, but now he thought he got it. Master Trask and Bastila Shan had been the powerhouses on the _Spire:-_ the great Jedi hopes. Only, because wasn't it just how the galaxy crumbled (and it was crumbling); they were both lost, and what had been saved _instead_ was their little charity project, this hapless kid who'd been caught up in some Sith factory or something, half-brainwashed, maybe left to die.

Hell, he'd even heard her screaming about a factory: in Huttese, Mandalorian, and Basic. _Factory. Foun'day. Rydisc…. Forge._

There were rumors the Sith were doing sweeps on the Undercity. Looking for escapees. Being Human, he and this woman stood out already. He wasn't sure how long goodwill was gonna keep them alive. Goodwill didn't feed a man's kids, and the Twi'lek family next door looked hungry.

The way Carth saw it, they'd be safer above ground, where they could blend in. If this woman, with her blank stare and nonsensical babble, was capable of blending anywhere.

He gave her another sleep cycle before he sent her into the fresher with the change of clothes that looked the most upmarket, and some lave. She was in there for an hour, long enough that he started to get worried.

"You okay?" He knocked on the door. "Polla?"

"Ja'kun," she called back. Hey, he knew that one. _A minute, or your life's breath; it makes no difference to me._ That was Huttese.

"Fine," Carth muttered. "Be that way."

Women spent a lot of time in the bathroom sometimes. Frankly, it was the first kind of normal thing she'd done.

XXX

The fresher had a mirror. There hadn't been any on the ship, which was really strange. They… they said it was because of collisions. So no one got hurt.

_They said. Who? Who said?_

_The people. The people on the ship. It's safe there, but we're here._

Polla Organa stared into the mirror.

Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale.

_You just fell out of the sky and landed in a coma again. Of course you're pale._

_I should call Ma. She'd have a fit. She'd probably kill me. Maybe… maybe I'll call her later._

Her eyes were-she blinked them. They were eyes. _Eyes change color, you know that. Sometimes they're brown, sometimes green. Sometimes yellow-or-red._

_Red's bad._

"Red's bad." Polla Organa bit down on her lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood, watching it well to the surface and then recede. It hurt. Her lips looked funny. She pulled back her hair to check the healing gash on her head. It hurt a little too, not much. Her hair felt strange and thin-

_Tie it up. Need a topknot. I'll feel better when I have a topknot._

She looked around the bathroom. Her hair had been wet and now it was dry. How long had she been standing-?

There-the shirt she'd been sleeping in. It was too large anyway. She ripped off a sleeve and used it to wrap around her hair.

 _Tie it up. Need a topknot. I'll feel better._ She checked the mirror.

Polla Organa blinked.

Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale. She frowned. Had she always had those lines on her skin? And the spots? Faint, but there.

 _I look old. And pale._ She pulled up her shirt, peering around it. _And thin._ She dropped the shirt back down, scrambling into the pants the pilot had provided. They seemed wrong, but so had the clothes on the ship.

Polla Organa blinked.

Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale. She frowned. Had she always had those lines on her skin? Faint, but there.

_I look old. And pale._

_You just fell out of the sky and landed in a coma again. Of course, you're pale. I should call Ma. She'd have a fit. She'd probably kill me. Maybe… maybe I'll call her later._

A noise behind her, a door sliding open. She tensed-

_Blaster. Where the frack is my blaster? I had it, and then I crashed the canyon loop-_

"Sorry to bug you, I just wanted to check, make sure you didn't fall in or something... Oh! Didn't have you pegged as vain." The man's voice behind her was strangely grounding. Normal. His reflection behind her in the mirror. Grounding. Normal.

 _Of course. That's Carth Onasi. I trust him._ She left out a breath. _I trust him. We're going to find Bastila Shan._

"I'm fine," Polla Organa said, turning away from the reflection. The approval she saw in Mister Republic's eyes was better than the mirror anyway. She pulled her hair up and out of her eyes, looping the tie around her top knot. "Thanks for dragging me out of that escape pod. Guess I was pretty out of it."

"You hit your head pretty hard," the man agreed. "And whatever you were dreaming about sure made you talkative."

"Oh? What did I say?" Her dreams had all been like some children's vid about Jedi out of legends: a woman's face, a yellow-bladed laser sword, and a feeling of overriding panic, like the images should mean something; but the words themselves were lost.

"Nothing in any language I know." He paused. "But you know a lot of languages, right? I read your service file. Isn't that why the Republic brought you in on this mission?"

"Languages?" She frowned. That was—that wasn't right. Not exactly. But she did—she did know a lot of languages. When you're making your way through the galaxy, you need to learn a lot of languages. She knew basic, and Corellian, and Huttese, and—

_And I know a lot of languages. I know a lot of languages. That is why I am on this mission. My mission is to report to the Jedi and follow their instructions—and I know a lot of languages._

_It's not my fracking fault the Jedi all died._ Did this mean the deal was off? She felt a surge of relief. Fracking Jedi.

"The Jedi are all dead," she told him. "We're free."

"Yeah…." His voice trailed off. "That's the... optimistic way of seeing things, I guess."

"First we'll find Bastila Shan," she allowed. "Do you know where she is?"

He seemed to pause for an irritatingly long time before he answered her. "Yeah, maybe I was thinking we'll find _you_ a safe place to hunker down and then I'll do some snooping. Bastila Shan's a Jedi, but no one's gonna be looking for a few grunts like us."

"No, the Jedi are all dead," she told him. "Therefore, Bastila Shan isn't a Jedi."

"Yeah…." He was attractive, the way that line furrowed his brow.

Polla Organa glanced in the mirror again. And blinked.

Dark hair. Roundish face. She liked the nose now, but kids had called her sheepnose when she was a kid because of that tilt. She peered into the mirror more closely. She was really fracking pale. She frowned. Had she always had those lines on her skin? Faint, but there.  
 _I look old. And pale._

"Do I-?" her voice broke off. _I can't ask him that, can't ask if he thinks I'm old and pale. He'll think I'm nuts. Or vain._

_He already thinks you're insane. See how he's looking at you?_

"I sorry," Polla apologized. "I'm not myself."

"It's okay. It's okay."

 _He could gentle a hessi with that voice,_ she thought. "I'm really fine. I'm just… I hit my head."

"Yeah..." He stared at the ground and kind of shuffled his feet. "We should… we should probably make tracks. I made friends with this guy Larrim. He says there's a bounty on Republic escapees? I don't think folks down here would want to turn on us, but if they offer a reward that's big enough-most sents aren't saints. Guess you... you probably know that already."

"How much of a reward?" _More for you, probably than me, Mister-Republic-Poster-Boy._ "Hey, didn't you do some recruitment posters a few years back?" She shifted on her feet, regaining a little equilibrium. "Or maybe you just have one of those faces?"

"Maybe both," he smirked. "I'm… I'm pretty well known in some parts, but not around here. Taris is pretty far out there."

"Not as far as Deralia. I'm from Deralia."

"Yeah… you… you keep saying that." The worried look was back.

"Let's go." She was suddenly restless, like something was stalking along her spine. _Hessi walked on your grave,_ Auntie Mita would say. "Do you have my gun? I'm an excellent shot. I think I need my gun. I left it in the speeder-"

Carth Onasi sighed. "We'll see."

XXX

" _Taris," the narrator said sadly. "Just another planet to burn under Sith occupation and then shatter under Sith bombardment. Just another planet in a string of Malak's atrocities. Atrocities that began with Endar, Yu-Phaedra, and Telos. But Taris was different. It is said that Darth Malak bombed Taris to rid the world of one Jedi: the brave Knight, Bastila Shan."_

" _Unbeknownst to him at the time, Taris was also the current residence of his former Master and his mortal enemy."_

" _In one of the Republic's finest moments, Revan Starfire saved Bastila Shan—and a few others—from certain death. There are few survivors and fewer images; but here are their stories. Stories from simple people, whose lives Revan Starfire changed irretrievably for the better, despite the great tragedy that followed..."_


	3. Why They Call Me It I Do Not Know

**Oblivion**

XXX

_The yellow blade flashed and spun, propelled by the earnest Padawan who would be dead a thousand times by now if she wasn't potentially so useful._

_Almost bored, Revan waited for the next pathetic attack. Her own double blade was still in her hands. Not even lit._

" _You can't win." Her own voice. Flat. Pointing out the obvious. Why even bother._

_Behind the girl, the corpse of a more useless Jedi. Necessary refuse._

_Irritation. Irritation at all of this. The Jedi were wasting her time. She'd let them board to get Bastila Shan, and now it was done. She had Bastila Shan, the rest of this game was pointless._

_Jedi, wasting her time, when she needed to kill Malak._

_Her head turned away from the girl, towards the viewscreen._ Leviathan's _expanse filled the horizon. Their ships were aligned on her orders: bridge to bridge. Cameras displaying his image, even as his ship's recorders watched hers. Holocams everywhere._

_One final show for the old man, for the Coruscanti inheritance laws._

_Lord Revan raised her hand, readying the command to fire. Adratus nodded. Always loyal to a fault. Good man. She preferred the company of nulls now, even if you couldn't trust—_

_Something flashed in her eyes. Something broke. Something exploded, so fast her personal Force shields barely had time to activate. Something slammed into her, knocking her backward. Her head hit the deck with a shattering crack._

_White and yellow light. Stars. Scream of vacuum from a hull breach. Fainter screams of her crew, those too slow to activate their magtreads in time. Even with eyes closed, Revan saw the strike from behind: a yellow blade flashed, and she rolled away, turned away from the sonic blast even as it screamed through her shield, upended her, sending gravity and reason tumbling. Magtreads failed._

_The yellow blade stabbed. Something gave in her guts, burning, like cold fire. Like stars._

_Malak. Malak shot first. He dared—?_

XXX

**Chapter 3 / Why They Call Me It I Do Not Know**

XXX

He'd only left her alone for a second, just long enough to use the fresher himself after her hour-long primping session in there; but when Carth came out, Polla Organa, registered-Deralian and nominally-sane smuggler had a blaster in her hand. One of _his_ to be exact, the plain Aratech he'd carried ever since enlistment, the one he'd won off Jordo in a long-forgotten game of pazaak.

Carth froze. "What… what are you doing?" _No sudden moves, just keep her talking._

"Nice piece," Polla commented, sighting along the barrel. "My Da had an Aratech like this; single-cell, auto-recharge. They don't make 'em anymore. These days, it's all too much push in the doubles… get more clips—but too much weight. Hard to be accurate. This here is precision. Sign of a real shooter." She looked up at him, raising one arched brow, almost red against her skin. "You got good aim, Flyboy?"

"I try." His mouth felt dry. "Your… Da sounds like a nice guy. I guess… Deralia must be a pretty rough place."

"Sure. Mean streets," she snorted. "If you're an eridu bush. Or a kissra lambie. It's farmworld, Flyboy. Where are you from, again?"

"Can I have my gun back?" Carth gave her his own best disarming (hopefully literally disarming) smile. "Now? Please?"

"Sure." She held the grip loosely in one hand, and then flipped it, almost effortlessly into a spin like she was some kind of pistol jockey—

Her hand must have slipped, though; because Carth's pride and joy discharged with a sharp explosion, opening up a whole new hole in the damned wall.

"Wow, that's some kick!"

He ignored her, diving for the thing before the crazy schutta picked it up for another try.

"Something's off with the weight," she kept going. "Maybe you need to get the chargers rebalanced, if it shoots that trigger when all I did was—"

"Don't," he snapped. "Don't ever. Touch my weapons again." He grabbed his belt and the other (still holstered) blaster before she could.

"I'm sorry," Polla hedged. Indignant. "You... you don't have to be a ronto about it."

"It's okay." Carth didn't know what to do with her. Her voice sounded so sincere, but that story about her father, all her sleep-talking in Mandalorian… not that it… it didn't matter if she _was_ Mando'ade, he reminded himself. That war was over, and sents like Malak and… and the men who served under him, men who weren't Jedi, men who chose, willingly to follow the mad—they were worse than the Mandalorians had ever been—it didn't matter.

_If she's Mandalorian, she's Mandalorian. She's still on our side. The Jedi said so._

"Let's go," Carth ordered.

Polla had turned her head again back to the mirror, frowning, as if she saw something wrong in the balance of her face. Her face was fine: maybe a little too pretty and a little too pale, but fine.

"I should… call my folks. They must be worried sick. D'you think they'll know that our ship crashed?"

_Do I think your family on the other side of the Rim knows that our top secret mission with the damn Jedi Fleet ended with us crashing in Sith-occupied space?_

_Sure, Polla. I bet it made prime HoloTime._

"No way to call them now," Carth pointed out, trying for diplomacy. She'd taken another step towards the fresher, and he took her arm, trying for gentle, and pulled her towards the door.

Polla followed his lead, surprisingly docile. "I bet we don't have the credits to make an interstellar direct," she added as they walked through the door, which wasn't the point at all. "Do we?"

"Not really." Gaz the Ithorian had given what Carth hoped was a decent rate of exchange for the Republic chits he'd had on him, but Carth had spent half their local currency on damned Doc Gurney.

"We'll need to figure something out," Polla mused. Carth still held her arm, but now she was the one leading him; practically pulling him down the hallway. "Gather some equipment. Weapons. I had this fantastic modified blaster rifle I found on the ship, but I… I dropped it." She rubbed her temples, abruptly pulling away from him, turning and walking backward, so they were still face-to-face. "I'm a good shot. Maybe Bastila Shan has more credits or weapons. When we find her— _how_ are we gonna find her again?"

"We don't need more weapons," he corrected her hastily. "We won't need anything that draws attention," he added, lowering his voice. It was a little late for that, though, with the way she kept moving, not even looking where she was going. Not many sents on this level, but the few that they passed—all of them turned and stared at the crazy woman with her hair tied on top of her head walking backward down the corridor as if she was dancing.

"Will you turn around?" He lowered his voice. "Please?"

"Huh?" She frowned. "Why?"

A Duros family stepped to the side to let her pass, and Polla didn't even react, keeping her eyes locked on his. Hers were a strange green, like hyperdrive ducting; thickly-lashed and lighter than her eyebrows.

"You're gonna run into someth—"

She sidestepped a janitorial droid and a Human janitor neatly, her hand brushing the droid's dome. "You want me to walk on your arm instead, Flyboy? I don't get _leashed."_

"I wasn't…." She was attractive, he realized—not that he hadn't noticed the individual parts before: but seeing her animated, secure, almost….

 _Are you flirting with me, Polla Organa?_ "I don't think we're at that point in our relationship, Deralian," he grinned back.

"Oh?" She tilted her head to the side, still walking backward. "I don't know. I think you'd look good on—"

"Hey! Watch where you're going, eh?" The Duros man had an aggressive tone that immediately put Carth's teeth on edge. "You almost ran into me, Human!"

Polla half-turned, and then froze. "Oh." The smile on her face wiped clean, leaving it blank.

"You Humans! Slumming it down here! Think you can get away with murder!"

"We could," she agreed, so calmly that it set Carth's teeth on edge. "We could do _anything,_ Red-Eye."

"Polla!" He grabbed her arm.

"Red eyes," she muttered. "Bad."

"Excuse my sister; she's uh…." Carth pulled her arm harder. "She's been ill."

"Got my glare on you two!" the Duros man yelled as Carth dragged the smuggler away.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded when they were around the curve of the wall, safely out of earshot.

"I don't… I'm not sure." She looked up at him, suddenly chastised. "All Duros have red eyes. All of them. That was all that was. Wasn't it?"

"Yeah." _Somebody sure did a number on you. No wonder the Jedi were trying to help._ He tried to make a joke. "If you're going to flip every time you see a red-eyed sent, we'll have to make a sign."

" A sign?" Polla frowned. "Like a holosign to wear above my head?"

"They do it with social deviants on Althir," he told her. "And jaywalkers."

She laughed. "Now, I know you're yanking my motivator."

"I'm just saying, if you're gonna jump every time you see a Duros on this planet, maybe we need to warn folks."

"Hah." She glanced up at him, rolling her hyper-green eyes. "Can the sign say, 'I'm with Captain Stick-in-the-Power-Modulator-Onasi?"

"I think you hurt my man feelings there." He could give back good as she dished.

She smiled slowly, like that was a challenge. "Oh yeah, Flyboy? Trust me; I'm just getting started—"

XXX

_Duros have red eyes. It is nothing. The man is harmless. You are harmless. You must stay hidden. You must stay with Carth Onasi until my comrades and I make our escape and find you—_

Lost in uncertainty, trapped within her own bonds, it was easy to lose herself in the other woman's mind—and necessary, in fact, as it seemed that Bastila's help was so sorely needed.

_You are Polla Organa. You are a Deralian smuggler. That is all. Eyes change color. There is no need to panic. No need to communicate with your family. Trust Carth Onasi. Stay with him-_

Polla Organa's world thrummed with life and color. But there was nothing to see in the world where Bastila was now. Nothing, save a wall and the blur of an energy field. Bastila kept her eyes closed, reaching out, reaching out to where there was light and sound and life—

"This the one?" The voice was male, jarring her thoughts with all the subtlety of a thermocrete detonator—pulling her back to her own body. "The one you wanted? Others got froze and shipped."

_Others… frozen and shipped? Does he mean my companions?_

"Maybe…." The voice was dark. _I know that voice!_ But the name escaped her. Then, an all-too-familiar sound: the snap-hiss, the soft cry, the life snuffed out.

_Nothing. Light on a grid. I will not mourn an unnamed Sith, who serves a Dark Jedi-_

"Thank you for your service, Ensign Coates," the voice chuckled. A door slid open, the door to her prison.

" _Bastila Shan,"_ the familiar voice chuckled again. "You're looking quite well… for a prisoner of the Sith."

Bastila opened her eyes—

"Hello, Knight Agare," she said.

XXX

_There were many things that the Council never made clear to Bastila about the day that brought her former idol crashing into the muck above the remote Outer-Rim world of Deralia. One of the greatest questions that no one ever answered, (not even Malak himself, when Bastila had the occasion of being his prisoner for two and one-half months in an ancient Sith Temple), was how the Jedi had known where to find Revan's flagship in the first place._

_Yes, Master Korr had her network of spies on Sith worlds: presumably, that was how Master Korr had learned that Malak was planning to betray Revan. (But had she known? Really? Because the woman had seemed genuinely shocked at the time.)_

_But the question that would hound Bastila Shan like a vornskr unleashed until the end of her days was how Master Marla Korr had known that Malak would not capture their brave band of Jedi too._

_It was almost, she thought later, (quite bitterly as Malak's captive), that Lord Malak had known there was no need to contain her. That the patterns set in motion upon that day could end in no other place but with Bastila by her Lord Malak's side. That this, this dark cloister upon the Star Forge was always her destiny. And all Bastila's actions preceding: the good, the bad, the foolish, the sincere and the vain—all had meant nothing at all, there at the end of all things._

_There, at the end of all things, she blamed the Jedi fools who had set her upon this path._

_For, while it was true that Bastila herself was young and inexperienced, she could not help but observe that the Jedi Masters, her former teachers, had made some_ terrible _decisions._

_If their task force was removing only one Sith Lord; would it not have made more sense to remove Malak? He was the Butcher of Telos, the madman held in check by his consort's cold prudence. Why leave him standing, with his endless fleet?_

_Revan, by all accounts, held a certain reputation for rational thought, despite her corruption. Perhaps she could have seen reason. Perhaps even… been properly redeemed?_

_But no one had asked Bastila why this option was not considered_ — _except Revan herself—and by the time Revan thought to ask it was too late for all of them._

XXX

"It's a little dull," Sheris commented. "Why did we come to this wretched planet again?"

"Shopping," Beya drawled. "And to piss off his Lordship." _And to get a good reading on you._ But no point in mentioning that. It had been simple enough to manage, and now the local authorities were conducting their own sweeps for a biometric match, based on the scan they'd taken of Sheris Darkstar as she disembarked from her Imperial shuttle.

 _Looking for an Imperial imposter_ , was what the (classified) bulletin warned. Beya thought that read better than _'looking for a former friend and master who should be long dead.'_

"Careful," Sheris warned Beya. "Cross Malak, and I cannot protect you."

"I once gave you the same warning," Beya noted. "Remember?"

"Yes." Sheris made a face. With artifice dropped, it was her own expression, only slightly ajar on the copy of Revan Starfire's face. "I remember everything, Beya."

Was that gratitude, or accusation?

"My Lady… Ladies…." The groveling shopkeeper approached nervously, her hands full of white fabric. "Perhaps this…?"

"No." Sheris shook her head. "I need something ankle length. To wear under robes."

"Try it on, at least," Beya urged. The fabric was beautiful.

"Why?" The eyelash flutter was overdone, but that snide smirk might make Beya _undone._ "You want to see?" Hard green eyes met her own, calculating their own equation.

_As do we all, all of it's a game, a gamble, a throw of the dice—_

There was a decent casino on Taris. Beya had been hoping they could end the evening there, though it would be better if Sheris wore a half-mask: being in the company of someone continually recognized as Lord Malak's consort was wearying, after a time. All the scurrying and sniveling and currying favor—

"Yes," Beya murmured. "Of course, I want to see. It will look beautiful on you."

Sheris smiled. "You're too kind."

At that unfortunate moment, Beya's wrist-comm chimed. She glanced down, noting the coordinates, the surveillance cams now tracking her target—

"But later," she finished, looking back up at Sheris. "I have to go… there's been a sighting."

"Bastila Shan?" Sheris rolled her eyes. "Just between us— "

The shopkeeper took that moment to make a noise, reminding them of her existence.

"Wait." Beya held up her hand. "Hold that thought."

Then the shopkeeper made another noise: a short, gasping, garbling one.

Beya extinguished her saber as the woman's body fell to the floor.

Sheris frowned at the stain forming in the formerly pristine white eridu fabric, now lying in ruins. She scuffed it to the side with the edge of her boot. "It _was_ too short," she noted. "I think it looks strange when a gown is shorter than the robes over it." She seemed to eye Beya's trousers. "At least on me."

"You were saying…?" Beya prompted

"I was saying…" Sheris agreed, "that Malak is _obsessed_ with that woman Bastila Shan and her Battle Meditation. By all account, she is quite strong. They call her 'the Hope of the Republic.'"

 _Quite strong and quite beautiful._ Beya thought she knew where this was going. Women were a predictable lot.

_Even me._

"I think the important goal here is to keep Padawan Shan out of Republic hands," Beya suggested. "As long as their Fleet cannot use her against us… their will is already broken."

"Yes." A slow smile lit Sheris's beautiful, fake face. "I'm glad we're in agreement. Meet you in a few hours, back at the hotel?"

"I should be done by then," Beya agreed. "Try not to lose your guards this time. There has been some… unrest here, the governor said."

"Ugh, _that_ worm." Sheris got up and began thumbing through the garments suspended by anti-grav hooks against the wall. "My Lord and I had dinner with him _once,_ and he was the most disgusting, boot-licking k'lor slug I have ever seen."

Beya laughed. "And you've met our boy Bandon?"

"Him?" Sheris laughed. "Lord Malak says sometimes it takes a carpet bombing; other times a single knife. Bandon is a good brute. Effective for some things…." Her eyes narrowed. "And you are effective for other things, Beya."

 _Yes. I am._ "I'll return as soon as I can," Beya promised. "Then, I thought… we could go out. There's a casino here. It's quite nice. Do you like to gamble?"

"Of course. We are Sith." Sheris laughed. Her eyes were wide and green as leaves. "And still alive."

xXxxxXxx

 _Initially, there was merely this: the claxon of alarms as their own ship barnacled onto Darth Revan's flagship, the_ Aleema's _hull. Then, the whine of specially-calibrated sabers as the Jedi task force sawed through that hull; blue sparks and yellow flames from their explosive; the stickiness of the airlock sealant; the crash of Bastila's magnetized boots, touching down on the surface of a vast ship. Then, the sound of pounding feet running through coiling halls that would seem a nigh-impenetrable maze without the maps Master Marla Korr had provided._

_Even with the maps, Bastila and Knight Selusia would have been lost without Master Korr's guidance. They had split into teams of three, better to infiltrate separately and then regroup. (The strategy seemed ill-advised to Bastila, whose own gift worked best with the largest unified force before it, but no one asked a nineteen-year-old Padawan anything, even one as profoundly gifted as she.)_

_In any event, Bastila's group of three encountered little resistance until they reached the_ Aleema's _bridge. There, it became quite evident that they had encountered little resistance_ before _the bridge because the real resistance had been focusing its efforts on the other strike teams; while luring Bastila, Selu'a, and Master Korr straight into the_ Aleema's _black heart._

 _(And while on the topic, which was one Bastila did broach with Lord Malak after a particularly nasty exegesis of self-reflection and regret: what kind of woman names her flagship after a failed Krath aristocrat anyway? If the ship had been named the_ Nomi Sunrider, _Revan's motivations would have been comprehensible. But when Bastila asked, Malak only laughed. At the end of all things, his reasons for mirth were often not clear.)_

XXX

"Stay with me," Carth muttered to the smuggler, who looked so wide-eyed that he was starting to wonder if she'd ever seen a city before. "Don't fall off the plat."

Polla Organa was peering over the side. "What's down there?"

"The Taris Lower City. Where we just were?"

She glanced back at him, rolling her eyes. "No kidding, Captain Obvious. What's below that?"

His nerves were bad, jumpy. There was a pair of Sith guards not very far away, silver and anonymous; and other soldiers in Imperial uniforms walking the streets like they owned them.

_Because they do._

Carth wanted very badly to do something about it all—wild thoughts occurred to him: like finding the resistance, helping—he'd commanded fighters before—how much different would it be?

_We could make a difference here. Maybe… maybe we should._

"Below that's more city," he answered her finally. "If Taris is like every other city-planet I've seen, the farther down you go, the worse it gets. Less light, less air, less food—"

"I'm starving," Polla interrupted. Woman had the attention span of a gizka. "After we find Bastila Shan, we need to eat. How long d'you think it'll take?"

"I think..." His voice trailed off. He hadn't come up with much of a plan himself. "I asked around when you were unconscious. There are a few hotels up here where they don't ask too many questions. We'll book a room in one, and then I'll go out and scout—"

"I'm the scout," she interrupted. "Scout Organa, remember?"

"How could I forget?" Trying not to seem like he was going to drag her down the street by her arm, Carth held out his hand to hers. "Come on. This way."

"Hotels where they don't ask too many questions?" She had a directness of gaze that rattled him. _She_ rattled him. One second she seemed… normal. Charming, even. But then the next—

"Sith!" She froze. "Sithspit, those are Sith!"

The two armored heads turned in their direction; and Carth, not knowing what else to do, grabbed her arm and pulled Polla Organa through the first open door he saw, which turned out to be a cantina.

XXX

_In addition to the overwhelming dark presence of Lord Revan herself; Bastila and her comrades found Knight Davad Arkan, Knight Vikor Tio, Knight Beya Organa, Admiral Armon Wu, and—much to everyone's astonishment—Master Arren Kae, who had been presumed dead some years ago at Malachor._

_Against such superior force, they three had no hope at all, and that was horrifically quite clear; as was, Bastila realized all too quickly from the smug smiles on the faces of the fallen Jedi surrounding her, the fact that the Council's trap had only served to deliver them all into Sith hands._

_Bastila wondered for a moment if there was a traitor in the heart of the Council itself—but subsequent events left no time for further reflection._

_Bright-eyed Selucia, with her absolutely filthy jokes and her love of choco cakes, was killed almost instantly. Master Korr was encircled and held back by Tio and Arkan… leaving Bastila to face Revan alone._

_The Dark Lord was masked but hardly anonymous beneath thick black robes. When she turned towards them, Bastila saw her own face reflected in the battered Mandalorian artifact the strongest Knight D'Reev wore on her face. The mask was a deliberate taunt, Bastila assumed, just like every other effort of intimidation and extortion the woman had made in their horrid, bloody, pointless war._

_The Force coiled around Revan like a living, poisonous snake. The paragon of Jedi idealism that Bastila had met when still a child had ceased to exist, been replaced by a mask and a robe and the sudden, sinking sensation that Bastila and all the other Jedi had walked into a trap instead of springing one._

_The Dark Lord took a step forward, and they exchanged words—childish jibes, really._

_If anything, the woman seemed bored; the officers on her bridge poised, but not interfering. (There were almost no enlisted troops there at all, as if Revan had the arrogance to assume they would not be required.)_

_What was supposed to be a heroic effort to capture and contain a galactic scourge instead began to seem like something far different._

_It began to seem like an audition._

_XXX_

_Knight Agare._ But Bandon was a Jedi Knight no longer. A Sith smiled back at Bastila now, with a death's head grin on plasti-white skin. Yellow eyes of the damned glittered greedily, his mouth twisted in an expression she could only describe as a leer.

_How long has it been since you were captured? Not long before Revan's… end._

"Bandon Agare," Bastila acknowledged, trying to keep herself composed. They had gone through padawan training together, before Bandon's disappearance. A disappearance soon followed by rumors that the strongest Force user of their class had been taken to Darth Malak's side.

And then, examples of his raw brutality began to filter back to the Council… _the sack of Endor, the capture of the apprentices on Denova, the Escooine massacre…_.

Bastila took stock of her surroundings: a small room; crude, definitely groundside on Taris, from the stench. The shimmer of a containment field lay between Bandon and her; restraints bound her hands. But no disruptor. Her Force abilities were intact.

_Because he wants you to use them. The more you struggle, the more he enjoys it. He's a sadistic bastard. And you are a pathetic fool._

The vitriolic nature of her thoughts was quite shocking.

 _Peace,_ she counseled her thoughts. _We shall persevere._

"Where are my companions?" Her voice sounded frail and thin in her own ears.

The pale man stroked his narrow beard. "Master Derium Vash? Master Ski'tal? Padawan Lakenna?' He smiled slowly. "Quite safe, I assure you."

_And by safe, he means dead. He would not leave them alive. You are the only prize they value._

Bastila's heart sank. Handsome Vash, wise Ski'tal—and Lakenna had been… young. Lakenna would have grown into a capable woman someday.

An errant image disrupted Bastila's senses, pushing away the physical world again, replacing it with a vertiginous view off an urban platform: drizzle, the sensation of rain on her face—

_My name is Polla Organa. I am a Deralian smuggler. I trust Captain Carth Onasi._

_You trust Captain Carth Onasi. You do! Please. Trust Captain Onasi. Stay with him. Stay safe from harm_ —

Lost in her captivity, Polla Organa's world seemed preferable to her own.

In her own world… the shadows gathered. Even with her eyes closed Bastila could feel the new dark approaching; a hunger, _needs_ consuming all else-

 _Sith! There are Sith here!_ In Polla's world, an armored patrol passed. The woman's panic spiked, feeding back into Bastila's—or was it, the other way 'round? In the moment, covered in shadow, Bastila did not know.

Panic gripped, blinding her from both. Bastila squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her knees buckle.

_I cannot be there for us both! I cannot be in two places at once!_

"She's coming along quite well, Master. I think you'll be pleased." Bandon's voice suddenly had acquired a new, wheedling tone—with the undercurrent of something else. _Fear. He's frightened too. Bandon fears this master. And if Bandon fears him, then what hope have I—what hope do any of us have?_

The darkness was with them now. Even without opening her eyes, Bastila knew, she could feel it, cold hunger, like dark wings, blocking the sun's light.

"Nurse Shan?" A darker voice than Bandon's, a low growl. "I believe _we_ need to talk."

XXX

 _Perhaps Nomi Sunrider in days of old had been capable of fighting and projecting her Battle Meditation at the same time. Perhaps_ she _had been able to instill strength to herself while weakening her foes; but Bastila could not. She lacked the strength, or the masters who had trained her had deliberately kept it from her, denied her the chance to fulfill her destiny_ —

_The Dark Lord merely lifted an arm, and Bastila was buffeted back, almost knocked over by a wave of darkness that felt like the slap of a hand. For a moment Bastila was reminded, quite strangely, of her own mother's chastisement after the woman had had too much to drink._

" _You cannot win," Bastila called out._ You cannot win because you are wrong. You cannot win because I am right. You cannot win if the others arrive soon. You cannot win if my reinforcements come and save us.

 _The Dark Lord of the Sith merely lifted her hand again, beckoning Bastila forward._ Daring _her._

Courage, _Bastila told herself. She thought of Meetra, and the brave Knights D'Reev before their fall. She thought of Meetra, and all the other brave ones they had lost. She steadied her lit saber, readying for the next charge._

_But the Dark Lord turned her masked face away, barking a command to one of her men and then—_

_Then, the world exploded with an outraged shriek of vacuum and durasteel. Everything not magnetized or bolted began to stream through the suddenly large gash in the hull. And worse, worse than the carnage, (as Bastila herself grappled with the bulkhead plating, scrabbling for purchase like nearly every other sentient in the room), was the dying scream of Revan Starfire echoing in her head._

Did she do this to herself? _That was Bastila's first, astonished thought. But no. The anger and loss, the sense of betrayal—those emotions could be nothing less than reactions to treachery._

_Bastila had never been to a polar world: really, she'd traveled to so few planets. With the new war effort, she'd spent months inspiring troops on ships; meditating to bring unity to troops of thousands, imagining battles as exchanges between two sides, each like grids of light—_

_But never groundside, never where she could be risked._

_Still, even with no empirical knowledge of the experience, the image of ice cracking on a planetary scale stuck in Bastila's mind_ _. Like an ice floe, with the tide surfacing what was underneath: what one should not see, what one must never know—_

_Revan's death throes deafened all else. It took another few heartbeats before Bastila's half-blinded eyes noted that the ship's automatic shields had finally kicked in, leaving them all choking on the suddenly restored equilibrium, compressors kicking in to replace the depleted air._

_And in Revan's darkness, Bastila had found shadows from her own past, an echo torn from the heart of the Force itself, like an hallucination…._

Xxx

"Meetra! You're back!"

Bastila would recognize that black tangle of braids anywhere, halfway down the girl's back, in dark contrast with the bleached gray, stained silver of her robes.

From across the hall, standing by the stairs to the Jedi Council door, her friend turned, and Bastila's heart froze.

"I-I like the tattoo," she ventured.

A red star etched on the girl's cheek. Some Mandalorian clans tattooed their faces: they'd studied that and many other cultural traditions as children; before the world changed and Meetra went to war while Bastila was kept isolate—the shy sequestered Padawan.

Her cloister did not rankle; she reminded herself. It was necessary.

Meetra's mouth twitched. "Hello, Tillie."

Bastila embraced her—the last careless embrace she would have in childhood.

And then, she felt it: the death of a world. She felt all of those Jedi on Malachor again, screaming fresh across the stars—raw agony, contained within her friend's thin frame, contained within the bond of friendship that lay between them.

It was—it was too much to grasp in that moment. Her mind shrank back, withdrew, landing on platitude and half-apologies. "You were there? You were at Malachor! Thank Force you escaped, Meetra!"

The girl from Balmorra shook her head. "I didn't escape. Not really." She stepped back carefully. "You… did you see the newsvids?"

"I'm afraid not." Bastila shook her head. "Master Vandar and I were on a diplomatic mission. To Freelia. We sensed… something, but we didn't know until—"

"Oh," Meetra interrupted. "Well, then. I… I suppose you will hear. Later." She turned towards the stairs that curved upwards towards the High Council chambers. "I… I'm already late," she murmured, glancing up at the ferracrystal dome.

"Of course." Bastila frowned, expressing her concern. "We'll speak. After Council. Of course."

"Of course," Meetra responded.

Bastila was still young enough not to catch the lie.

It was only after Meetra was gone that Bastila did see the feeds: the ones calling her friend the Jedi Deserter, the ones suggesting she'd fled instead of following the rest of the brave Jedi and Fleet to the Unknown Reaches to chase the last Mandalorian threat—

And when Revan and Malak were exposed as betrayers, Meetra's tale was almost lost entirely: a few mentions of a Jedi Exile, a Jedi brave enough to defy the others… but precious few. Almost, Bastila had thought, as if no one wanted that tale to be told.

It was Malak himself—even later than that—who finally told her the real truth. It was Malak himself at the end of all things who told her so _many_ real truths.

Xxx

Meetra, _Bastila thought in that moment—feeling her friends emptiness echo through her again._

_She lunged forward. The Dark Lord was already falling, felled from the bolt from the other ship, robes smoldering, mask askew._

_Bastila had been trained, trained more than half her life, but she_ _had not killed; she was rarely risked in close combat, despite her then, that scream echoed through her mind, like Malachor again, like madness, like watching the Order that had been gentle and nurturing turn strange—and in that instant, her saber lashed out, and the Dark Lord failed to counter._

_There was a sickening noise when Bastila's blade seared flesh, and then Revan Starfire collapsed, a pile of black robes: a mask, an outstretched hand, still twitching._

_The former Jedi's body twitched and stilled._

_A holo-camera flashed above them, and Bastila blinked at it in confusion._

_Bastila stared at the body of the Sith Lord, the first sentient she'd ever killed. (Or so it seemed, at least in that moment.)_

_The living behind her seemed to let out a collective breath._

_In front of them, the ship's shielding sealed vacuum. Later, when Bastila thought about the choice to save Revan, (and in Malak's prison there was too much time to think), she realized that she'd had as little agency in doing so as when she'd first turned away from Meetra, her best friend._

_And that… that_ burned. _Always so little choice, so few options… even for her, the most promising Jedi of her generation, the… the_ Revan _of her age._

Xxx

"There are fracking Sith here," Polla Organa whispered again, mouth half-full of the nerf burger she'd ordered. Carth had already devoured his own. Surviving on pod rations while he watched her scream for a week… had gotten a little stale.

"It's an occupied planet," he told her. "This is Taris. It's Sith-occupied—"

"I know." The waitress had brought them both something to drink too, muttering something about it being on the house. Carth had taken one sip and gagged—deathly sweet wine wasn't his thing—but Polla had drained half of hers.

Her eyes met his directly, and she put the burger down. "This is Taris. It's on the Outer Rim, off the Youanis Belt, off the 378th parallax. And you must think I'm nuts."

"I think you hit your head pretty hard coming down." he joked. He'd barely even seen her on the ship, just heard about Shan's special project. Medical charity case? Or picked for expertise? _What expertise?_ Like every sent on the wrong side of the law he'd ever met, she talked a smooth game (or tried to) but it all was off-kilter. _Medical charity case? Or… Mandalorian?_

"K'atini," he muttered to her. It was almost the only Mandalorian phrase Carth knew, and he wasn't even sure what it meant, except that it was rude.

"Excuse me?" She almost choked on her wine. "If that's a pass, it was terrible."

"No." He shook his head, trying to gauge how much to be on the level. "You… you talked in a lot of languages when you were unconscious… like you were having nightmares."

"Did I tell you to suck it up?" Her mouth twitched. "That's what k'atini means, pretty much."

"What are you?" he goaded her, "some kind of linguist?"

"Yes." She took another sip from her glass. "What are you? Some kind of pilot?"

"Some kind, yes," he agreed. "Guess you never heard of the Jagos Cluster Surprise or the Mantell Offensive…."

"Are those from a war? Or dessert specials?" she snickered back. "Was it the war you Republics won, or the one you're losing now?"

"It's your war too."

"Everyone keeps fracking saying that! Over and over…." She rubbed her temples. "When we find Bastila Shan, I'm gonna tell her exactly what I think about stupid wars."

"They're not stupid to the people who die in them!"

"No kidding." She pointed a finger at herself. "Neutral planet, remember? I don't give a frack as long as I have a fast ship and cargo to take someplace. I was running spice through the Sith Blockade on Dagary. You're welcome."

"You think I'll thank you for smuggling _drugs_ into Republic space?" Oh, but she was something else, a real piece of work.

"We ran a bunch of weapons _out—_ "

He laughed. "Are you joking?"

"I don't joke about jobs."

 _But we're on the same side now;_ he reminded himself. _The Jedi wanted her saved for a reason. She was hurt. She seems to want to get Bastila as much as you do._

"Dagary jumps are no kid's ride," he admitted grudgingly. "Sun spots fry sensors, and you have to— "

"Steer it blind. Yeah." Her lips quirked. "Then do it around two capitols and a few corvettes and get back to me. Without _cloaks._ Cloaks are cheating."

"Since when do smugglers have cloaking tech?" He frowned. _Or care about cheating?_

"Oh, some do." She shrugged. "Not me, I was never a big fish, but my ex, Therion, he knew this guy… big crimelord type, said he swore he could get us some from the Mandalorians—"

"Is that why you know Mandalorian?" If it was a con she was running, it didn't make enough sense, he thought. Nothing… _nothing_ about her made sense.

"Sure." Polla rolled her eyes. "Hey. Maybe… lower your voice? A little?" She got up suddenly. "Be right back."

"Where are you going?" He tried to keep it light. _Maybe it's your war too? Maybe not? Maybe you're going off now to meet up with your Mandalorian friends and sell me to the Sith?_

"Fresher." Polla shrugged, picking up her wine glass and draining it. "Be right back."

"Try not to walk backwards into anything."

She was doing it again, walking backward, still with her eyes on him, practically upending a cocktail waitress.

Without him requesting it, the bartender came over and refilled Polla's glass, frowning when he saw that Carth's was still almost full.

"Hey, we didn't order more of these." Carth glanced down at the datapad set into the table, but the bill display wasn't even lit.

"On the house," the Zeltron murmured, clearing their plates. "Everything."

"Thanks…?" _There has to be a reason. Whatever it is, it's probably not the goodness of someone's heart._

Carth stood up, scoping the room slowly, looking for traps—or allies. They weren't the only survivors; surely others had made it off. Would make sense they'd come here. Maybe the tab was some kind of sign—

A few sents looked his way, and one woman-brunette, long-haired, and attractive in a way he didn't like to notice-gave him a hopeful smile.

Too hopeful. And she looked too much like—

_No use thinking about that._

Carth sat back down at the table and nursed his wine.

XXX

_All the Jedi and Sith stood frozen in shock, as if no one had expected this outcome._

_The blast doors broke open and three entire squads of Republic Troopers burst in, suddenly shifting the abrupt balance of power on the—as they would learn later—remarkably undermanned flagship—to a decided Republic victory._

_And then, the_ Leviathan, _instead of closing its offensive, pulled back. Its wedge-shaped maw filled their broken viewport as it pulled away from Deralian orbit. Even more incredibly still, Darth Malak's flagship went into hyperspace immediately, abruptly blinking out, and vanishing from the system._

_Malak and his Sith legion were gone. And Revan Starfire was dead._

Xxx

One of Bandon's arms was bandaged with a thick sleeve of kolto. His eyes were yellow and mad.

But the man behind him was smiling, and that was much worse.

Bastila knew him as well. Knight Davad Arkan had been a Beast-Rider prince, a would-be King of Onderon, assigned to Jedi training. Instead of ruling his planet, he had followed Revan and Malak to war; become a beast indeed, if the rumors of the sack of Endor were to be believed.

"Tell me," Davad Arkan asked Bastila. "Why _Nurse_ Shan? Why would the Jedi assign their only Force user with the gift of Battle Meditation to the role of nursemaid for a brain-wiped Dark Lord?"

 _They know._ Bastila's heart sank. _They know everything._

 _No,_ whispered her conscience _. They know only what they can see._

"She knew all of us as medical professionals," she dissembled.

"But she asked for _you."_ Davad Arkan chuckled. "Did you know, she asked me to find _you?"_

_You saw her—? You saw Revan? I will not panic._

But a jolt of fear spiked through her spine all the same.

It took Bastila another moment of heartstopping terror to realize that the fear was not her own.

Xxx

_Revan Starfire was dead, lying like a broken droid on the broken bridge of her own ship. Killed by Malak's betrayal—and a Jedi task force._

_Behind Bastila, one of the Sith—or their men—made a sound like a choked sob. Or a laugh._

_Bastila turned. The troopers were already efficiently sorting the prisoners. She recognized so many: Knight Vikor had called her 'kiddo' when he was merely five years older himself. Master Arren Kae had been Revan Starfire's own Master. Admiral Armon Wu had once asked Bastila's advice during the Mandalorian engagements._

_And, as if they were the only two sentients in the room, Knight Beya Organa stared at Knight Davad Arkan, who stared back at her. Almost as if, at any moment Knight Arkan would take Knight Organa into his manly, strong arms—_

_Bastila Shan blushed, realizing the inappropriateness of the sentiment. The enormity of this moment._

Revan Starfire is dead. My mind scatters to the mundane and the foolish to escape the enormity of… of my actions. Revan Starfire is dead, and I-I struck her _—_

_In the hushed silence, Beya Organa dropped something on the floor, something metal and small and crushed. Her fingers opened and then closed into a fist. The small metal thing burst into fragments, disintegrating until it was a pile of dust._

" _Why?" Davad Arkan demanded. His words echoed._ "Why _betray—?"_

" _It was personal." Beya Organa turned her head, staring at the viewscreen. With Malak's ship gone, all there was to see was the Outer Rim planet spinning below._

_At the time, Bastila wondered if their disagreement had involved some lover's token: if that was what had crumbled into dust. At the time, Bastila had thought to herself that surely Davad and Beya were examples of the dangers of attachment._

" _Get them out of here," Master Korr commanded, with more vitriol than Bastila thought appropriate in a Jedi Master. "Collar them. Force cages. There will be trials."_

_Some of the Republic squad had already dispatched the common soldiers and Wu, the Fleet Admiral who had betrayed his own._

" _Save her," Master Arren Kae implored Bastila, as she was led off in chains with the rest. "Jedi do not kill their prisoners. Save her. Save Revan. Please."_

How?Bastila wanted to ask. How does one save the dead?

_But the woman was already gone._

_The blast doors closed behind them, leaving Bastila and Masters Korr, Ferrin, and C'Var standing alone before their fallen paragon._

XXX

The bar's fresher was dim and dark, with a single mirror. Polla was just checking her reflection and puzzling over what color her eyes were in _this_ light _(not red)_ when the door opened, and another woman came in.

The temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees.

Polla looked up. Behind her reflection, she could see the other: dark hair, loose to the shoulders, half-hiding a pale, nearly gray face. Yellow eyes...

_Yellow, that's bad._

She stared down at her hands, trying to center herself, to calm the immediate, jolting fear that electrified her body—making her want to run… or scream… or… or fight—

_You wouldn't make it to the door. She could end you with a thought._

"So, it's true," the voice said behind her. "I had wondered if this was some kind of trap—not even the first between us baited with children; but you… I can sense nothing of you at all."

Familiar voice. Familiar accent, familiar as home.

_Deralian. She's Deralian._

_Come on! No Deralian's gonna kill me!_

Polla looked up again. Their eyes met in the mirror. The woman obviously recognized _her._

It took Polla a few heartbeats of wracking her brains before she got it. Had been ages, but… but….

"Beya… right?" _Wow. She looks like shit._

"Davad said you did not know him." The woman frowned. "Me, but not him?"

"Beya _Organa?"_ The tension poured out of her like a rush. _Beya Organa! The only Jedi I knew except… except—for those dead ones on the_ Spire. _And they died. They died because there were those fracking Sith assholes—_

Polla turned around to face her cousin… cousin… her aunt's cousin's kid, the one who used to make the crops fail until they shipped her off to Jedi… even though Ma said they were all just superstitious yokels and the Force couldn't mess up farming, as everyone with HoloNet knew.

 _Is she now a Sith asshole too?_ She _was_ wearing black.

Also, Cousin Beya wasn't smiling back, Polla realized. In fact, Cousin Beya looked pretty grim. _And Sithy. She looks SIthy._

_Is that a thing?_

Polla smiled nervously, trying to put them both at ease. "Hey, didn't you join the Jedi? Because I was just on this fracked mission for them? Did your parents tell you—I don't know how often you even call home these days—"

"My parents are alive?" Beya Organa raised both eyebrows. They looked like she'd painted them on. "Is this meant to be some threat?"

"Huh?" Polla thought back. There had been talk, she hadn't paid much attention.

Cousin Beya. Gone to Jedi. Gone to war for the Republic. (Her Da had been _pissed.)_ Beya Organa, gone off with the heroes of the galaxy and then—

"I said," Beya Organa murmured, "is this a threat? Are you threatening my parents? My planet? Again?"

"Why the frack would I do that?"

Beya laughed harshly.

"It's _my_ planet too!" Polla added.

"Cut the act," Beya snapped.

"What act?" If Polla had her blaster, she'd be tempted to shoot the other woman in the knee for being so fracking intimidating. She'd done that once, to a Rodian on Nar. Asshole had squealed like a hessi. Served him right for tapping their port fees.

"You're quite sincere." Beya Organa sounded surprised. "Did the Jedi do this as a message for _me?_ Or… was it _her?_ The old woman?"

"Your Ma's not that old. She looks good. We saw her at the Grange meet last…" _week? Last month? Last year?_ For a dizzying second, Polla panicked that she didn't know. "She's in good nix. Your Da too. I mean… they looked. I didn't really talk to them. Aunt Mita did most of the talking—you remember _her."_

"Yes." Beya's eyes were yellow. They should have been a deep brown. _Like... like eyes get sometimes. Sometimes… mine are. Sometimes they're brown too._ They should have been brown, but eyes change. Eyes change. "I remember her."

There was something weighted in one of Beya's sleeves, Polla noted. _Blaster?_

"Hey, do you have an extra gun? I think I left mine in the speeder, and… it crashed, and I don't kn—"

The door burst open again, making them both jump.

"Sorry," said a yellow Twi'lek, "is the stall free?"

"Help yourself." Polla gestured. "Just catching up with my cousin—"

"Cousin," Beya echoed like _she_ was the one with the head injury. "I have _six_ cousins named Polla Organa."

"Tell me about it!" Polla had always hated having such a common name. "We only met a few times. Remember that one… when Sara and I snuck out to see that concert, guess you were home from… Jedi school on some kind of break…."

"Jedi School." Beya's lips twitched as if that was funny. "You don't have the Force at all, do you, Polla Organa?"

Polla scoffed, holding up her hand. "Right. Sure, I do. I'm gonna lift you up in the air now—"

Her words died as the joke seemed to fall flat. Beya's hand vanished inside the sleeve of her robe; and something, like a giant invisible hand _pushed_ Polla back a few steps.

"Hey! No need to show off! I had enough of that Force stuff on the _Spire._ Jedi are fracking scary."

"Right." Beya's mouth pursed. "Jedi _are_ scary. And _you_ are my dear cousin Polla Organa. The one from Adaston. Jasp's daughter. That night, the children with the fake idchips—Polla. And Sara. Organa…."

"We were sixteen," Polla grinned. "What was it, ten years back? Thanks for that, by the way. Knew having a Jedi cousin would come in handy. Hey, did you know… this planet's full of fracking Sith?"

"I… joined the Sith. Guess you didn't hear?"

"Oh. That's… nice." She took a cautious step backwards. _Nice? That's nice, dear. Frack, I sound like Ma!_ "Well, I was gone for seven years… so I probably missed some stuff. Got my smuggler's license though and everything! Was doing really great for a while, until… did you know Therion?"

"D'Cainen?" Beya gave an incredulous snort. "In fact, yes. We went to… to… primary."

"Yeah, well… the Sith are bad," Polla remembered. "And Therion turned out to be an asshole."

"Excuse me," the Twi'lek pushed through them both to the sink.

"You should leave," Beya told her. "This room was empty. You heard nothing."

"I didn't hear anything." The Twi'lek walked away with a glazed look.

"That was a little rude," Polla pointed out. "Way she just walked out like that."

"Stars," muttered Beya. "What do I do with this?"

 _Maybe you could help us find Bastila Shan?_ She wasn't supposed to trust the Sith, Polla knew that.

But Beya Organa was family.

Xxx

" _We should… carry her. With honor," Bastila began, struggling for words to acknowledge the woman she had killed. "Even fallen, Revan died one of us, a true—"_

" _No. She's alive," Master Korr interrupted. "Barely. I sense… a spark. A small spark, but there, nonetheless. She's alive. She must be saved. She_ must."

" _Alive?" Ferrin sounded shocked. "How—?"_

" _I sense nothing," said C'Var, but the Cerian sounded uncertain._

_Bastila turned back to the broken figure on the floor, knelt before her. The mask covering Revan's Starfire's face was fastened by magnetized clips, easily unsealed. She lifted it away, revealing the fine, ruined features: a woman fallen, flesh pale as death where it was not blackened into corruption. A terrible wound in Revan's head, a pool of blood soaking the floor. The face was cold and still, and Bastila's hands could find no pulse, no sense of anything at all._

_Except_ —Malachor _._

_Faint as an ember in a dying campfire, something flickered; a primordial insect, struggling as the block of ice closed around it._

" _Help her," Master Korr's voice commanded; but Bastila was already kneeling in front of the woman's broken body, searching within, opening every skill she had learned of healing. "She cannot die," Master Korr whispered, her words like a scream in Bastila's mind._

_And then—strength flared within: the same strength that had inspired armies, driven the Fleet to victory, won the ground on Dagary Minor before Revan and Malak's forces beat them back again—Bastila Shan's power and hers alone. She, Bastila Shan, the first Jedi in two generations to have the gift of Battle Meditation… she… she narrowed the focus of all of that power; primal and world-bending, into a spindle, slender as a spear—_

**Help her.** _For a moment, she almost heard the fallen Master Kae's words again, echoing in her own mind._

_Bastila felt herself sink like a stone into a world of sand, endless sand; and then a ripping pain, a fierce, harsh joy that she, Bastila Shan, realized suddenly was the most volatile and intense of passions. She felt that joy change as well, freezing into an endless well of grief and betrayal, felt her own mind wilt beneath the onslaught—_

_Bastila felt her own body, dimly, as if from a great distance, fall to floor next to Revan's. When she opened her eyes, their faces were centimeters apart, and for a dizzying instant, she could no longer tell if the woman staring back was her or this strange, twisted stranger's reflection—_

" _Help her." Somewhere above, Master Korr's voice was dark and strangely deep, shaking with emotion._ "Bastila Shan. You must."

XXX

"What shall I do with you, Malak's prize?" Davad's smile was unearthly, lit from within, his eyes like yellow suns. "I have so many questions…."

"And you're gonna answer all of them, Shan!" Bandon gloated like a schoolboy.

Davad snarled softly in his throat. "Leave us, Bandon."

"Lord Malak said—"

Whatever krayt pearls of wisdom Malak may have imparted were lost to posterity, as Bandon's body slammed into the wall. There was the sound of loud and noisy choking. And… and a part of Bastila almost… it was almost—

 _Pathetic worm. Mad Sith are so limited—_ the noise that came out of her mouth could have been a gasp. It only sounded like laughter.

Davad's laughter drowned it away, in any event. "Get out," he told Bandon.

Without another word, her former classmate did so.

Davad Arkan's head turned back toward her. He smiled slowly. "And now, we may talk in peace."

Xxx

It was probably a stupid idea, Polla thought, to ask her cousin the genuine Sith about where to find the Jedi Bastila Shan. But maybe she _should_ ask her about what the hell had happened, aboard the _Spire._

" _Do_ the Sith have the right idea?" she asked Beya. "Da always said they might, but what I saw—there was this kid, and this woman, and Trask, and they—"

"I don't know." Her cousin's hand was still inside her sleeve. Like she was _definitely_ holding something there.

_Like your death. She has your death in her hands._

_Like you're going crazy, with this crazy voice in your head saying banthashit things about people and death in their hands._

"Hey," she asked. "Look, this is a little awkward—"

Her cousin's mouth twitched. "Indeed."

"But maybe… you think I could borrow some credits? We… so we… we're kinda trapped here, and there's this… this thing…" _I guess if you're Sith I shouldn't tell you about rescuing the Jedi?_ "This thing I promised this guy I'd help him do."

"Davad?"

"Who?" It took Polla a second to remember the scary guy aboard the _Spire_. "Frack! You mean that loser who snuck into my room? No. This… other guy. He's nice. You'd like him. I think. Except you… I don't think he likes Sith much? But we… we need to find this… this person—"

"You don't need to do anything, Polla Organa." Beya's voice was hard and strong. It echoed strangely in the fresher, probably because of all the tile.

"I know I don't need to, but I—"

"No. You don't need to." Beya's eyes were yellow (not red), and still, somehow very dark and deep. Like the wise cousin she'd been back when they were teeners, lying for them to their parents, the cops, everyone. "You can do anything you want. Understand?" Her mouth twitched in a smile. "You're Polla fracking Organa."

"I can do anything I want," Polla repeated. Weird echo in this fresher. "I understand. You know what I want to do is find Bastila Shan—"

"No." Beya shook her head. "It's too late for her. What you want to do is be _free._ " She laughed. "After all of this, someone should."

"No." Free from what—Taris? "We don't have any credits, Beya. How the frack can we be free with no—"

"Here!" her cousin snapped, upending a pocket. A purse dropped to the ground, and a mass of gold chits spilled on the floor. _"Take them. Be free. Forget you ever saw me."_

"Thanks," Polla said, bending to the ground, scooping them up. "Thanks, um…" she lifted her head.

But no one had ever been there.

XXX

"Weirdest thing…." Carth tried to make it a casual joke. "Someone comped our meals, our drinks—everything."

The Deralian smuggler shrugged. "This planet is fracked. I just found ten thousand credits in the ladies' fresher." Polla Organa lowered her voice. "Maybe we should get the hell out of dathomir before someone comes looking for it."

Xxx

 _Three weeks later, they were aboard the Republic medical ship_ Ascendant, _still on patrol above Deralia. Nominally, they were still there to protect the world from the Sith possibly returning—but truthfully, as Master Ferrin said when he'd shared too much firewhiskey with General Sand— they were still there because no one was quite sure what in all the nine hells and seven heavens to do with the Sith Lord in the coma, who kept making the ship tremble in its orbit._

_Revan Starfire, Dark Lord of the Sith, had survived her wounds—at least physically—but her mind was shattered. There was nothing left to redeem. Little even that seemed sentient. The scream that Bastila had felt years before from Meetra Surik echoed even louder through Revan's tortured thoughts—and when she seemed close to waking, it drowned all else._

_Just a word:_ Malachor.

_For Bastila, Revan's turmoil made reaching the state of clarity required to use Battle Meditation impossible. She had somehow formed a Force bond with the Sith in the act of saving her. And she was now damned to the same patchwork of dark rage; the same sense of betrayal—of loss—and, she feared, if the rage continued, that it would lead her to the same madness that had consumed poor Revan._

_When she was a child, Revan had rejected Bastila's offers to help with the war. Now Revan had ruined her ability to fight._

XXX

Davad Arkan paced back and forth before the energy barrier, and Bastila was oddly glad it was there.

"Do you have any questions for me?" he murmured, pleasantly enough. A smile played at his lips, sly and knowing. A thousand times more terrifying than all of Bandon's bluster. "Before we begin?"

"How… how were we captured?" Master Vandar had once told Bastila that negotiating from a position of strength was done even in weakness—if your belief was strong enough. It sounded like weak panacea now, but she wanted to believe it true. "We were four Jedi in our escape pod, and— "

Her memory only was full of pain and darkness, the whirr of a stasis field. The numbness of a sedative before she even had a chance to release herself from the pod's restraints—

"I assumed whoever was in the _first_ escape pod would be the Jedi's biggest prize, and instructed my men to retrieve its contents, over all others." The former Jedi Knight shrugged. "I wasn't there personally. When you being captured by a team of Force-hunters, I was still aboard the _Spire,_ having the most curious conversation with a mind-ravaged ghost."

 _Do not react. Give nothing._ Bastila lifted her chin, trying for bravery. "Who?"

"Who?" He scoffed, pacing back and forth like a jungle beast. As if it was _he_ who was caged and not she. "I began to wonder that myself. She did not know me at all."

Inwardly Bastila quailed, imagining the confrontation between helpless the Polla Organa and the Sith before her. _And yet, she lives. And yet she lives, and she is free. Stay free;_ she thought, a little desperately. _Stay free, Polla Organa. Do not let yourself be taken as I have been—_

 _Ask Arakan why he is so memorable._ Her conscience interrupted, cutting through the chaos of her thoughts with near-surgical coolness. _Ask him why she would know him, why he would ever_ assume _he was worthy to know her—_

"W-why?"

"Why? Why what?" Arkan stopped, folding his arms.

"Why would you expect to be kn-known." It would probably be more mocking-sounding, Bastila thought, if her voice didn't waver. "By her. Y-you are not the man you were, Knight Arkan. I s-scarcely recognized you myself."

His eyes narrowed to slits, assessing her. "You have grown too, Padawan Shan. It is still… _Padawan_ Shan? Curious, that Bandon received his knighthood trials before you."

 _They said I was too valuable to risk. They said this war was my trials, and it has been_ — _a trial beyond any I have ever dreamed—_

"Rank matters not," she told him crisply.

"Even so." The Sith resumed his pace. Back and forth in front of her energy shield. "Enough sport. Malak wants you alive, and he shall have you alive; but I shall have _my_ answers first. I can rip what information I require directly from your brain, or you can tell me. The latter is much more pleasant, and will leave your childish and humiliating secrets intact—mostly." His eyes glittered. "So hard to admit, even to yourself how much you admired young Knight Malak D'Reev—idolized him… even more, than you idolized his—"

"Stop!" Her mental walls were slippery things, lost barriers blurring, even as a part of her mind fled to the refuge of the smuggler's simple thoughts:

_Soft rain on her face, the strong shoulders next to her, the orange banthahide jacket._

_He's cute, huh? Shame he's such a soldier-type, probably balls in the sack…._

_Xxx_

Polla Organa was whistling something that sounded uncannily like a Mandalorian marching song to Carth as they walked down the street. A smug smile played on her mouth, and he wondered again if she'd just found the credits—tucked inside some plain, vaguely military-looking purse—or if she had robbed someone for them… or worse.

_Well, we need them. Don't ask too many questions. She's a smuggler. That's a step up—or maybe down—from being the kind of sent who robs pensioners. But we need them. Don't ask questions when you won't like the answers…._

"So, someone picked up the tab for us in there," he began. "You… you have any friends on this planet?"

"I don't know." Her voice was careless, but her eyes glinted. "Do I, Flyboy?"

"Maybe," he allowed. "Jury's still out. We need to find Bastila and the others and get out of here."

"Let's get the lay of the land first." She took his arm like he was some kind of Mandalorian escort, and dragged him into another bar.

It was packed.

 _Sents on this planet do a lot of day-drinking,_ Carth thought, while noting that more than half of them were also wearing Imperial uniforms.

Xxx

_Bastila was not privy to the Jedi deliberation that led to the decision to give the raging dark Lord a replacement personality: she was only rather too personally aware when every amalgam they attempted—three, she thought—shattered under the woman's native strength. Holocrons of Jedi masters of old were apparently too peaceful, too weak to contain Revan Starfire and whatever passions had compelled her to turn against the Republic._

_Meanwhile, Bastila's own nightmares increased, fragmenting to madness. She could not use Battle Meditation; she could barely manage enough concentration to buckle her shoes some mornings. She was a failure._

_Bastila realized, in one horrifying moment, that she despised Revan Starfire. She found herself in the middle of the night, as half-conscious as a somnambulist; standing before the woman's bacta tank with her saber, extended but unlit, pressed hard against the flat of the tank, directly above the fallen Jedi's black heart._

_And, at that moment… she looked up and saw Revan's eyes, watching her. Those eyes were yellow and damned through the bacta mist—and entirely too conscious for someone who should have been drugged into oblivion._

_The woman's lips moved, she could have been saying anything, but Bastila heard the words in her own mind:_ _**Not yet.** _

_It was quite fortunate that no one else witnessed that moment of dark desperation—or so Bastila assumed until much later—when Malak's own dark whispers insisted over and over that everyone else_ surely _had._

They chose Revan over you, Bastila. They chose her power over your own—you might have survived her death—at least then, when the bond was new. But they wanted her more than they wanted you, as everyone has always: wanted her more than they ever wanted you—

_Seeking solace, Bastila requested to volunteer in the general medical wards…._

XXX

Bastila heard herself stammering, the strange mix of lies and truth— _enough truth for him to believe it—_

"—but her mind was damaged, as well as her body, and… every attempt for redemption failed— "

_You mustn't tell him why. Mustn't tell him the real reason, what the Jedi know, what they seek… tell him something else, something that will distract—put him on edge, off-guard—_

"So, you made Revan this… Force-blind _thing."_ His yellow eyes glittered. "And then what? Were you going to set it free? No. There is some reason, some purpose beyond a Jedi experiment— "

_Admit a weakness to save the rest. Admit the first, but not the second._

"They did it to save me!" she burst out. His thoughts were on hers, slippery, pressing, probing—Bastila had an image suddenly of a winged beast, swooping in for the kill. "Revan's body and mind were damaged beyond repair, but I saved her. The… the effort forged a bond between us. And what I saw in her mind— "

"What you saw?" He straightened. "In _her_ thoughts? What did you see?"

_The conceit in wondering if her thoughts were of you, Arkan._

The amusement felt like it was coming from some place alien, a part of Bastila she had never allowed to exist.

"Malachor," she whispered truthfully. Only the word, but echoing through Revan's broken mind like a scream—

"Malachor," he scoffed. "Malachor is obvious. What do you mean, 'bond between you?'"

"Her nightmares were driving me mad." _Red eyes._ "I… there was a link—she— "

Davad's commlink chimed. He glanced down at his wrist, frowning, held up a hand. "A moment, Shan." He took a few steps backward, muttering to whoever was at the other end of the unit, and then, to her astonished eyes, vanished behind a door.

 _Now,_ her conscience begged. _Escape now._

_My hands are bound. There's an electrical field._

_Free your hands from restraints first,_ her conscience prompted. _Then the field._

 _And then?_ There was one door, the one Arkan had just exited.

_This prison was not made to hold Jedi. There are as many doors as you make._

Xxx

As was _customary on military stations, the_ Ascendant _had taken on several difficult medical cases from the planet below. Bastila's skills as a Force user were compromised, but performing simple tasks assisting others was quite grounding. She worked anonymously there, as all Jedi did when providing service._

_And, in that small respect, Deralia was quite remarkably refreshing: its denizens truly did not seem to know who she was!_

_And so it was, on a mission of pure altruism, that Bastila met Polla Organa, a registered smuggler, and amateur speed racer; recently Force-healed of her brain injury, and recovering under observation in the critical wing of the Ascendant's medical facilities._

_The Order and Fleet were both quite desperate at that point. Truly._

XXX

"Frack the Republic!" Polla cheered, raising her glass.

"Frack the Republic!" the table of Imperials Polla had befriended when Carth was questioning the old pazaak shark in the corner cheered back.

Carth had discovered there were rumors of additional escape pods in the sublevels of Taris; but nothing about a Jedi, famous or otherwise. He'd also discovered that those levels—including the one they'd been occupying for the past week—were now under lock-down for anyone without residence papers. Pazaak guy had said something about a door-to-door search too.

"Hey…" Polla had utterly ignored his furtive gestures from across the room, forcing Carth to squeeze in between her and a guy with lieutenant's bars. "About time for us to get going?" he murmured in her ear while trying to keep his own head down.

"Hrm?" Her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was coming loose in little tendrils around her ears. Her eyes were half-lidded and lazy. "Guys," she announced with a sweeping gesture, "this is my partner in crime. Kath… Kath O'Blasti."

"Like a hound?" the lieutenant said.

"Yeah," Polla didn't miss a beat. "Madkath O'Blasti… these… these gentlemen were just saying the entire planet's under martial law? Because of some stupid Republic thing?" she raised her glass again. "Frack the Republic!"

"Frack the Republic!" the table echoed.

"Listen, um, _Sis—"_ Carth had no idea what name she'd given them.

"I'm Madkath O'Blasti's sis," she echoed. "His sister. Sis O'Blasti."

"We should… we should go. Sis."

"Your sister's quite a girl." The Lieutenant chuckled. "You know, we're having a party tonight in the officer dorms. They're in Sector C. Stop by."

"I like parties," Polla agreed easily. "Maybe we will." She stood up, swaying a little on her feet. "And, like I said, once we crack the blockade, Bro here and I should be able to meet your… contraband needs. What was it? Deathsticks, spice, glitter stim, jolt— "

"Kinda hard to get anything from the Deep Core now," a blonde kid offered. "I miss CoruGin."

"Jedi porn for old Skylak here," another one offered. "Our masters outlawed everything to do with Jedi…."

The guy who might have been Skylak punched the other guy in the arm.

Everyone seemed perfectly fine with Polla announcing they were lawbreakers, perfectly fine with all of this and it made Carth… damned uneasy. He kept his head down, close to the bulb of ale he wasn't drinking, trying to scope the table, scope the room.

_Hells._

"'Nother round?" Polla asked the table, rising in one smooth moment like it was a done deal.

"I'm gonna… help her get another round," he offered, following Polla fast, without looking back. She ambled her way through a pack of mercs, actually edging one two-meter guy to the side on her way back to the bar—

"What is this?" he hissed in her ear. The bar was crowded; mostly Human, mostly uniformed; but at least for the moment they seemed anonymous.

"It's a bar." She eyed him up and down, a faint smirk on her lips. "It's a bar, and I'm free."

"Free?" He tried to laugh, but it came out choked. _This morning you could barely form sentences!_

"There's this guy, Holden," she continued coolly. "He's in deep with Davik Kang, and even a Rect' like you must've heard of Davik. So we make a deal with Holden, get an intro to Davik, Davik calls Suvam, my old boss, who says good things… then—bam." She folded her arms. "Next thing you know, we've got a quick and profitable route through Sith space… _with_ Exchange protection."

Polla grinned smugly. "Sounds a lot better than dying in some war, right?"

Carth stared at her. "Is this a joke? Your cover?"

"My what?"

"We have to find…" he dropped his voice, even if he wasn't going to say the name.

"Bastila Shan?" Polla said, loud enough that a blonde woman in officer's brass turned and looked. "Sith picked her up already—her and a whole… pod of Jedi. Is that the right word? Pod? Flock?" She giggled. "They stashed her in the local precinct. I don't think they're taking bail, though."

Polla leaned on the bar like she owned it, peering over the side. "'Scuse me, Barkeep? May we get another round during _this_ era, please?"

Xxx

After informing him of the… the sighting, Beya Organa had come as Davad requested, to the local Taris jail, where apparently, the Hope of the Republic was already safely ensconced. Bandon had been sent skyward, to fetch an escort suitable for delivering Shan to Malak with the appropriate pomp.

Beya suspected Malak would not care, but Davad was always trying to impress him. In any event, the delay served her.

_Perhaps Shan and Bandon could suffer the same mishap. A ship malfunction? A terrorist attack?_

"I don't know if I'm more surprised that you're confiding in me, or that you let her go." Davad leaned back against the wall, looking at her with that amused smile that Beya wanted to burn off his face.

"You let our Revvie go too," Beya pointed out.

"I merely assumed someone who would enjoy killing her should do the honors." He shrugged lazily, but Beya didn't buy it. "I had assumed that would be you."

"I would enjoy killing you," Beya offered. "Much more."

"I would enjoy the duel," he replied mockingly. "But I'd miss you after. Not many of us left."

"True." Not many of them at all. And fewer every day. _The way of the Sith._

"We give Bastila Shan to Malak…" Davad laughed. "And then what? You and I just leave our mindwiped master roaming free in this planet like a… a free-range nerf?"

"Works for me." Beya shrugged. "There is nothing left of the woman we know—agreed?"

_If it was just Revan, would I still let her live?_

_No._ A year ago, Revan had been a threat to Sheris—and driven the point of her mastery home with the implied promise of invading Deralia.

_Years of loyalty. I embraced the Dark for you. And you'd repay me with the death of my homeworld?_

It has been a simple thing, warning the already paranoid Malak of his wife's treachery… but even then, the man had refused to act until the last moment when Beya transmitted Revan's command to fire upon the _Leviathan_ as it happened—giving him, with mere seconds to spare—the opportunity to shoot first.

 _You were foolish to confide in me, Revan. You were foolish to confide all sorts of things to me, foolish to think I would let you hurt_ her, _or Deralia._ Ever.

"It would be kinder just to kill her," Davad offered. "Revan… I mean."

Beya looked up from her thoughts. "We were never kind."

But her mind remembered two laughing cousins on Deralia, topknots in their eyes, golden skin edging out of their ridiculous dresses: kids with nothing but blue skies in front of them.

Xxx

" _Thanks for bailing us out, Cousin Beya? Jedi Beya?" the shorter one—Polla—beamed at her._

" _Just Beya," she smiled back at them. At their age, she had never been so free._

_The taller girl, Sara, was puking behind a bush._

" _Is it true you're not allowed to drink or frack or curse?" Polla asked, wide-eyed. "Because that sounds like hell— "_

_Beya laughed. "Not true at all. It's more like… like… we help people. But I might… I might leave." She missed home, even if half her relatives made the sign against evil and blamed her for crop failures._

" _You could probably make a bunch of credits using Jedi tricks," Polla suggested. "Like in casinos and stuff?"_

" _We got kicked out of_ Krakow's Dice Hall," _Sara added, wiping her mouth. "Can you Jedi us up some better idchips?"_

_She had to laugh. "That's not really how it works— "_

_XXX_

"You were never kind," Davad corrected her. "Always a bitch, Beya. Even back when we on the side of the— "

"Angels?" She laughed. "Honestly, Arkan, sometimes you still sound like a barbarian. Or a bloody Twi'lek. Like Vikor. The lot of you and your pathetic idealism— "

"We all have singular motivations," he said, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "At this moment, yours and mine… coincide." He stared at her thoughtfully.

"At this moment, they do," Beya agreed.

_Xxx_

Bastila Shan dropped through the hole in the ducts made by a direct application of Force to a weakened duracrete floor, and landed in a loose crouch in the middle of some muck. The light was dim enough that she had to adjust her eyes to see. By her calculations, she was roughly below the last level of the prison complex, in the network of sewer tunnels that ran between levels of this city—if it were like Coruscant—which was an assumption.

 _Keep moving;_ she reminded herself. _There will be less mercy shown if you are recaptured. The fate of the Republic is at stake._

Something large and rodent-shaped ran across her path, and she stifled a scream—

 _Just one of the Force's creatures,_ she reminded herself. _And I am at peace with them all._

 _Except the fracking Sith,_ whispered her conscience.

_Xxx_

"I couldn't help but notice your companion…" the Imperial officer said to Carth.

"Yeah, she's hard not to notice," he agreed.

Polla Organa was back at the table with the Imps again—and now seated its head. And she… she appeared to have organized a sing-along.

The words filtered back, "Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde…."

"That's Mandalorian!" The Imp sounded surprised.

"Yeah." Carth wished he was surprised, but he'd moved to a place beyond surprise, and somewhere into regret. _You knew she was crazy, but you trusted her. You trusted a Sith-sympathizing, drug-smuggling, gun-running Mandalorian because the Jedi gave your orders. Since when do we even take orders from them?_

He had another gloomy thought. _You know who takes orders from Force-users? Imperials. Sith. Whatever the blast they call themselves._

"You take orders from Force users, don't you?" he asked the woman.

"Most sane sentients do," she said. It was then that Carth noted the small, needle-nosed pistol in her hand pointed at his mid-section.

His hand started to drop to his own belt.

"Don't," she said, quite pleasantly. "There's an Imperial alert on your companion… and you're… I could _swear_ I saw your picture on a Republic recruitment holoboard, back on Serocco, in the reconstruction zone." She smiled, almost apologetic. "I don't remember your name, but… I'm good with faces."

"An Imperial alert on _her?"_ Carth snorted. "For what, being a crazy Mandalorian?"

"Beyond my pay grade," the woman said seriously. "But I'm not blind. _Look_ at her. Maybe unauthorized surgery… or… or some kind of black ops—"

"Something's rotten," Carth agreed. Agreed with an Imp who was arresting him! This was… this was a new low.

Amazingly now—or not so amazingly, considering: considering everything, it was probably normal—two actual Mandalorians, he'd recognize that _beskar_ armor anywhere—had joined in the fracking sing-along.

One of them was weeping. Like it was a sad song? _A sad Mandalorian song? What's it about? Being sent to your room with no grenades?_

"So now what?" There was a side exit three meters to his right. The bar was dark. Maybe he could make it out—

"I'm not quite sure. I commed in," she told him. "Waiting on a response."

"Black ops, huh?" He laughed. "Guess that explains the languages."

"Lang—?" the woman's comm beeped. "Oh. _Oh!"_ she looked startled, actually got up from her chair. And backed away from Carth. "I'm… my apologies for the confusion. You're… you're both free to go. Of course. Have… have a good day. May I get you anything? Do you need assistance?"

"Excuse me?" he scoffed. "That's what your comm just said? We're free to go?"

One of the Mando'ade was laying out an array of weaponry on the table. Polla Organa appeared to be shopping. As Carth watched, she picked up a Bothan shock stick and twirled it. _At least she can't kill anyone with that._ He was less sure about the nasty looking ion rifle she was cradling in her arms as if it was her new first-born. As he watched, she pulled out a handful of chits and scattered them on the table. One of the Imps exchanged a weapons belt for cash, and another handed her his gray and black hat. She tugged her topknot down so it lay flat and put the hat on her head.

"I don't understand." He wasn't sure he wanted to.

"Sometimes it's safer that way," the officer offered. "You know, I don't know if you're spoken for, but there's a nice… hotel, about a block away. Does she give you any time off? I keep a room there."

"You were going to arrest me and now you want to sleep with me?" He coughed. "I… uh, I'm flattered, but— "

"Hey, Madkath, look what I got!" Polla Organa came in with the force of a solar wind, bristling with weapons. "Rialis over there says he's got some clips for your Aratech too. And he's definitely gonna introduce us to Davik, if the Holden thing falls through…." Her eyes flickered to the Imp woman. "Who're you?"

For some reason, the woman who'd been hitting on Carth with all the delicacy of a Wookiee was now stiff and still. "Infantry Sargeant Devry, Second Class— "

"We need to be going. Really." Carth didn't see any way this could end well.

_They know who we are; if it's some kind of sadistic trap, sitting around isn't gonna help._

He grabbed Polla Organa's arm, his own bumping the rifle now slung on her back. "Come _on,"_ he hissed. "Sis."

"Bye!" Polla turned and waved back at the table, but then she let him drag her away. She even listened while he recounted how they'd almost just been arrested or shot—before obtaining _some_ kind of reprieve, which _obviously_ had _something_ to do with her.

"Look, just… just tell me," Carth asked as they walked along the platform. The hovering holocams, normal as they were anywhere in urban areas, suddenly seemed an ominous threat. "Were you Sith? _Are_ you Sith? Black ops? Mandalorian?"

"No!" Polla shook her head. "Grass Priests! What is up with your trust issues?"

Xxx

The cell was empty, except for the broken hand shackles, the fried shield generator, and the large, circular hole in its floor. When Davad peered down, he could see a similar hole bored into the floor below them, and, it appeared, the floor below that.

"How did Shan escape her Force restraints?" Beya snapped, voicing the obvious but unfortunate question that in hindsight was all too painfully clear.

"Bandon secured her without any," Davad admitted. "He likes to break Padawans by encouraging them to draw upon their power: to fight, to struggle. To unleash— "

"This sounds like something _you_ taught him," Beya accused. "So Bastila Shan's escape… sounds like your fault."

He wanted to tear her throat out for the arrogance of accusing him… but she was right.

"You will help me retrieve her," he said. "Or I will inform our Lord Malak that _you_ had Revan Starfire in your grasp and then let her go."

"I had other plans for tonight," she snapped. "Plans that did not involve resolving your mistakes."

"Cancel them." _Obviously._

The Deralian narrowed her eyes. "And when your little Sithling Bandon returns with Malak's Imperial guard to fetch Padawan Shan? What will we tell _him?"_

"To wait." He shrugged. "Until we are finished with the prisoner." His eyes flickered to the cell, with its nearly perfectly circular hole in the floor. From the cracks around the duracrete, it appeared that Shan had channeled the Force to create an extremely localized, sesmeitic event.

He had to admire her skill.

Xxxx

_Polla opened her eyes to find the world blurred into greens and golds. Her body felt weightless and warm, and her skin tingled. It took another few moments to notice the tubes attached to her skin, the visor attached to her head, the goggles covering her eyes._

The explosion. Seiran dared me to beat his time at the canyon loop, and I took him up on it? What was I thinking?

_Slowly, her surroundings registered: a medical droid hovering outside of her tank, pale, antiseptic walls; and a dark-haired woman sitting at a desk, monitoring her closely._

_There was a beeping noise, as the medical instruments registered her return to consciousness. The woman gave her a reassuring smile. Her hair was pulled back in two fat braids and her eyes were very wide. She looked young, really young for the medic's robes she was dressed in._

_"Don't try to speak." Her accent sounded Core. "You're in a kolto tank. I need to drain the chambers."_

_Polla's head hurt. She'd come back to Deralia after everything went wrong: Therion told her he just wanted to be friends; her shipment of spice was wrecked by kanna mites; she was almost out of credits—and no one wanted to pay up in advance._

_It had been a rough year. So rough that she'd gotten stupid drunk and tried to race the loop in the dark._

I'm so lucky not to be dead.

_Polla banged on the tank walls—_

Let me out! _Her breath hissed through the breathing mask._

_The medic stood up smiling, and started draining the tank. The top snapped open, and then the sides, as the kolto drained out. The air was chilly on Polla's skin. The breathing apparatus unsnapped, pulling with it gross tubes from her nose and throat._

_"H-how long?" Her voice sounded strange. Her throat felt raw._

_"You've been in a coma for several months," the woman said. She pushed a few buttons, and smiled reassuringly. "You're doing very well."_

_"Where is… everyone?" It didn't look like any hospital room Polla had ever seen._

_"You're on the_ _Ascendant, in orbit around Deralia. The local authorities asked for our assistance." She looked down, maybe being modest. "Our facilities are better than anything they have groundside."_

_"M-my family?"_

_"They've been up to see you." The woman began unfastening the tubes and drains. "Your parents, cousins, aunts, uncles—your family must love you very much."_

_The mask felt heavy. Polla was relieved when the medic lifted it off, and handed her a robe to wrap around herself._

_"That's what families do—so am I healed now?"_

_Several months, the medic had said. How many was several?_

_"Soon, I promise." The woman seemed to hesitate, frowning slightly. "There's just one more thing. It's… standard with traumatic brain injuries: we like to take a holocron of the victim's memories. That way, we can establish a baseline for your doctors as you improve. It won't hurt; but I need your consent."_

_"Why?" Polla frowned._

_"It is optional." The woman hesitated again. She seemed strangely reluctant, glancing back behind her, at the mirrored wall of the room. "It's just a test. To make sure there's no damage to the... limbic arrays."_

_"Um… sure—if you think it will help." Why would they need to capture my memories unless—unless I'm—is she lying? Am I going to die?_

_The woman's smile faltered for a moment, and her blue eyes looked too bright. "You're going to be just fine, Polla."_

_XXX_

_A/N thanks, Ether as always, for a lot of inspiration here. And I think maybe a roll of the dice line entire. This Bastila would not exist without yours. And double thanks for the corrections and insights that helped shape this chapter._

_Chapter titles I use are usually song lyrics, some more obvious than others, this is from Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue singing: "Where the Wild Roses Grow." It's an uplighting happy song about-okay, no it isn't. It's really depressing and sad. It's from an album named_ Murder Ballads. _Guess you get the picture._

_Mandalorian song is also wedding vows. So of course, it's sad. Geez. Poor Rialis Clan guy probably misses his wife! (or wives.)_

_Please let me know what you think!_


	4. They Shine For You

_XXX_

_On the summer solstice back home, night and day aligned, and the Dxun moon grew close enough that its atmosphere bled into the sky of their planet; colors of orange and gold mixing with a heartrending blue. That was when Davad, and his brothers, and cousins, and all of their royal escort would mount their great drexl and fly straight up, angling towards that impossible moon, the thread between their worlds. The air would grow thin and their limbs would shake; but they'd still rise, impossibly high—until the moon's heavier gravity took hold, and the wings of their great beasts would falter and fall, plummeting towards the demon moon suddenly below._

_That was the true test of a rider's skill, to guide a beast through its fear of falling, fear of oblivion; against all of its natural impulses: to command it to spread its great insectine wings and glide, catching the dense air currents, and angling down, slowly, gentle as a lover's kiss._

_Do it wrong, and you would both perish. Like more than one of Davad's cousins—and his eldest sister._

_Do it right, and a feast awaited: a feast for man and beast: roasted cannok and slices of sweet, wild melon. Charred and buttery tubers baked in giant pits with tarja pulp; and stolen glasses of spiced tarja wine…._

_XXX_

**Oblivion / Chapter 4 / They Shine For You**

XXX

The planet was beautiful. The planet was a cesspool, rotting from the inside up. Both things were true.

_Nothing ever changes in crapholes like this. Meet the new boss same as the old—_

Polla stared across the plat at the adjoining, gated one. A tall, blue tower spiked the heavens with a flashing, circular sign with giant holographic letters.

 _Luck,_ it read.

She stared at it. _Secuum, Lakah. Chance. Irgoshital._

"What the hell?" Hell was an angry man, yelling at her on this planet. _Taris._ The man was _Carth._ Captain Carth Onasi. "That stunt you pulled—back at the bar. What the _hell_ was that?"

"Huh?" Polla blinked.

"You were singing in Mandalorian!"

"I know a lot of languages." His eyes were brown. Ways to say the words scrambled her sentence. _Too many._ "Yo isegah sam. Jai mhi nar. Aba khutta lais—"

"Hey!" He grabbed Polla's arm, making her stop again. Across the plat was some kind of Entertainment Plex: lit with blue and white holosigns. A casino. _Chance,_ the sign said in Aurebesh lettering, now.

 _Secuum,_ her mind supplied. _Lakah. Luck._

"Look at me," he hissed, but Polla was still staring at the building. Red-liveried guards were escorting a white-robed and hooded woman from a mechanical palanquin. Had to be a pretty swank place, the way they were all drooling on her. Uniformed group of guards surrounding her too. _Sith guards. Imperials, they—they—_

"Huh?" Now Carth blocked her view, all broad-shouldered and omnipresent.

For a second, she had no idea who he was at all. _Secuum, Lakah. Chance. Irgoshital. Captain Carth Onasi._

"Polla!"

"Yeah?" She finally tore her gaze away from the guards, away from the woman in white. "I'm sorry, I—maybe that last drink was a bad idea, huh?"

"I think you… you got a nasty bump there. Let's go find that doctor."

"I'm good." She was. She was fine. She was just cold. She was cold, knew a lot of languages, and he was Carth. Polla wrapped her arms around herself. "It's late," she pointed out. "Unless your doc works at night?"

Overhead, the sky was still lit by the artificial lights, but above that it stretched, open and black.

 _Like stars. A grid—_ something above felt… wrong, from above. Like the darkness of space, pressing down.

"Damn, you're right." Carth's smile looked forced, but at least it was there. "Was underground so long, forgot the diurnals. Up here, they probably follow 'em."

"In the morning we'll go, and then we'll—" Polla suddenly wanted to be inside very badly. "We could check in there—" she nodded at the casino, which had to have a hotel too.

"Are you kidding?" Carth looked suspicious again. "Place looks like it's full of Sith!"

"They're just people."

That smile was gone now, replaced by something flat and cold. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Not here," he muttered. "But we need to talk, sister."

"I'm not your fracking sister!"

"Inside—we'll find a place."

He reached for Polla's arm, but she pulled away, picking a direction at random, forcing him to trail behind like an ass.

"That way," he snapped, directing her anyway. "To the right, street gets a little more down-market into places we can afford."

"I've got plenty of credits," she reminded him, not even looking back. Something bumped on her hip. What was— _oh._ The stun stick. She'd shoved it in her pants pocket. _What the frack was I thinking, that I'm gonna stun some sents?_ Most of the sents on the street weren't armed, not like home; but some were. Mostly ones in uniform, or with that swagger Polla had come to associate with coreslime. She herself had been proud of the ion rifle she'd snagged for a song from that Sith officer _(corporal)_ back in the bar; although the straps were too long and it was dangling awkwardly off her back now. But that was different. Everyone back home—you never knew when there might be a good brace of partegga to shoot; or a ten-point trawler—

_What am I gonna do with an ion rifle here? Shoot the bloody Sith?_

"We might need those credits to get off this planet." Carth had caught up, but at least he wasn't trying to take her arm again.

"I'll buy _you_ a ticket off right now..." she muttered.

"Can't tell if that's a joke, or if you've forgotten: entire planet is locked down. Nobody's getting off, not legally."

 _Don't panic._ Polla looked up anyway, up at that oblique black sky. No moon—at least, none visible. _Taris has four moons: Lakeya, Isphain, Dirata and Jocaste; but they're not visible through the atmospherics, not in this hemisphere, this season—I know that. I'm good at languages…._

"I knew that," she lied. _Did I? Did I know that?_ Carth had said… something before. He'd said a lot of things, but she'd been focused on finding… who was it she had wanted to find again?

_It's possible I might be losing my mind. I don't need to find Bastila Shan. I'm free. I can do what I want._

_I want to sleep. Ma always said a good night's rest makes it better. Maybe that's all I need. Maybe if I get some sleep this will all make sense._

"Let's find a cheaper hotel," she agreed. "Maybe things will… things will make more sense in the morning."

"This way." Carth took her arm and this time Polla didn't stop him, let him lead her across an intersection onto a smaller thoroughfare.

"Yes," she nodded. _Hesh. Gert'e._

_XXX_

No sooner had Sheris settled herself in the casino's penthouse suite then her comm pinged.

 _Finally._ It was not like Beya to be this late.

Sheris composed her features into an appropriately perturbed sneer.

But it wasn't Beya calling, it was Lord Malak.

" **You should not be planetside,"** he said, forgoing any introduction. **"Not now."**

"I have my guards—and Beya is here." _Or she will be soon._ It had sounded nice, having the opportunity to gamble and to shop. Taris was not nearly as provincial as Thule or Ziost; she could actually get Republic-made clothing here; food that wasn't grown in a vat; a decent glass of ice wine….

"You could join us, my Lord?" Although it would inevitably turn awkward. Malak would be compelled to express his strength in some tedious expression of atrocity, and those could drag on and on past the point of anything.

" **I need to see to the re-education of Padawan Shan,"** he told her. **"Lord Bandon has been dispatched to bring her to me."**

I will need to mediate your disappointment when that does not happen—if Beya does her job.

In a world surrounded by Sith, every one of them (who still survived) was a stronger Force-user than Sheris Darkstar. Lord Malak's devotion to her was her greatest strength. But this Shan… with her Battle Meditation, and her power… she could prove a threat greater than any before.

"She is attractive," Sheris ventured, trying not to sound like a schoolgirl, speaking out of turn.

" **She has a great gift, which will be useful to us."** It was difficult to register voices, especially over a comm, but Sheri's thought Malak sounded admiring. More than she liked.

"Nothing compared to your gifts, my Lord." Sheris fluttered her lashes, which usually worked quite well, but Malak seemed... unusually distracted. His face loomed too close to the camera, and she could hear his harsh breathing through his jaw's voder—too fast and shallow as if he were especially excited—or in pain.

" **I need you** _ **here**_ **.** _ **Now,"**_ he clipped. **"Return at once."**

"Beya promised to take me gambling," she countered. "I would say you should join us, but it would ruin the sport." The thought of the casino pitmasters recoiling before Malak almost made her laugh.

" **I need you…** _ **here,"**_ he repeated. His hairless brows drew down, and she thought she saw pain in his colorless, comm-blurred eyes.

With the distance between them, Sheris couldn't feel the agony of his rotting mouth or the madness of his thoughts; but she knew his words well enough now to hear the plea in them.

 _My Lord needs me._ Sheris had made him prove it once more. A small victory, but upon such, she had built a castle.

XXX

Polla Organa might be a Sith agent. She might still be suffering the effects of her head injury. Not mutually exclusive conditions, Carth realized.

The Deralian was thankfully quiet when they checked into the _Blue Palace Hotel,_ clerk smirking, even more, when Carth asked for connecting rooms and single beds, not that he gave a damn what some clerk thought—not here, and not now.

While the man counted out their credits (charging them about five times what Carth had expected to pay, but they were hardly in a place to bargain), Polla Organa had said nothing at all, just stared at the news holofeed above the man's head with an abstracted frown. The local HoloNews was going on about 'the defense of Taris,' as if the _Endar Spire_ had been some kind of sneak Republic attack, instead of the other way around.

No pictures of wanted 'Republic terrorists,' at least. Small relief.

"Are you drunk?" he finally asked her, when they were safely inside their suite.

"If we're gonna keep spending time together we're gonna need to work on your pick-up lines."

"That wasn't what I—" Damn if she wasn't infuriating.

Polla Organa was whistling something atonal and vaguely ominous. She flopped down on the bed in the hotel room, stretching her arms out. Her head turned, part of her topknot falling in one eye. "Still here? Cause... your room's over there, I think. You should go check it out." She pointed to the archway connecting the two small rooms.

"I know. But, wait. What the hell was that… what were you doing? Back at the bar?"

She turned over lazily, reaching for bed's cheap controls and rotating it into an incline. "Huh? I was just… collecting information? What do you military types call it? Intel?" She raised a hand, counting off her fingers. "One—I found Bastila Shan; two—I found an Exchange contact; and three—I made some business connections." She folded her arms behind her back and leveled a hard, green glance at him, eyes widening with pretend innocence. "You're welcome, by the way."

"And you sang a Mandalorian marching song. Don't forget that part." _And that woman as good as_ said _you were on an Imperial watch list. Don't play dumb with me—_ "Cut the act," he snapped.

"Act?" She frowned up at him, narrowing her gaze. From this angle, her eyes were slits of green. "You're the one who needs to cut it! You've been looking at me cross-eyed since before we checked into this slughole. Told you we could afford something better—"

"That's not—" How could he argue with her? He'd picked the most nondescript, ask-no-questions hotsheet place on the strip. _(And don't remind yourself why you know how to tell, Onasi. Now's not the time.)_ "You speak Mandalorian?"

"Yeah?" The Deralian shrugged, but a faint frown sketched between her brows. "I know a lot of languages. Helps me do my job—to know languages. I'm good. I'm good at languages."

 _You're paranoid,_ Carth scolded himself. Although, between Polla Organa and this planet, he was starting to think he had reasons to be paranoid.

_She's on an Imperial watch list. That doesn't just happen. Makes her either a really good smuggler, a really bad smuggler or… something else entirely. They looked her up and then let us go. Who do the Sith just let go? Their own spies—that's who. Or dupes they're trying to get to lead them to something else... but they have Shan already, so what do they want?_

_Is it me?_

The woman in the bar had been _looking_ at Polla. Had said it was her—to just look at _her—_ but looking at Polla Organa, all that Carth saw was a good-looking woman (who knew it) with a typical smirk. Hotshot pilot. Smuggler. Probably thought she had skills—

 _Was it me all along they were after? Was that Sith Lieutenant just playing me? Tried to get me to go back to her room. But then… why… why let us go? They_ have _Bastila already. Captain Jakar died in the first wave. And the other Jedi… most of them stayed on the ship. I have to assume… I have to assume the worst. I was assigned to Trask and Shan, and Trask is dead—Polla said so—_

_Is there someone else the Sith want?_

"Trust issues." Polla rolled her eyes. "We'll find this guy Holdan, get hooked up with the Exchange, and get off this rock. Then, if you want, I'll drop you on some army planet, or… whatever planet you want. Won't even charge you."

" _Charge?"_ He was having a hard time getting a grip on her thought process. _"Charge_ me for what? You _enlisted._ Remember?"

"I enlisted for _credits."_ She frowned, suddenly, the careless smirk fading. "Hey, am I still getting paid for this gig? It's not my fault the ship got blown up. If I dropped you off at—what's the nearest Fleet supply station—Ankara? They'd pay me there, right?"

"Ankar—" he lowered his voice. "Ankara got fragged by Malak's forces seven months ago. But how did you even know—" _Ankara was supposed to be secret. Not on charts. Not on anything, but Malak's forces found it. Cut the supply chain to the Mid Rim with one blow._

Carth had lost a few friends there. Poor bastards on shore leave. Never came back.

"I don't—" For a moment, she looked confused. "I-I don't know. Just heard it around. I… smugglers hear things, right? I'm a smuggler. I'm Polla Organa—"

"Yeah, I got it." _If you were a Sith agent, would you really be putting on such a brain-damaged act?_ Something in her face made him soften—a little. "Look… you did a good job back there, getting information out of those Sith."

"Information?" Her head turned towards Carth and he suddenly wasn't sure if she'd heard a word he had said.

"Intel." He kept his voice light. "We were just talking about it?"

"Yeah. I know." Polla drew her knees to her chest suddenly, hugging them. "Hessi walked over my grave," she muttered. "Is it cold in here?"

He glanced at the thermostet. It wasn't.

"Let's get some sleep," Carth suggested. "Then maybe… maybe we should let that Doc Forn I heard about take a look at you." His first impression, that the Sith had done something to her, that her mind wasn't right, came back to him suddenly. Seemed likely, watching her now.

"I feel fine." But the ease of her smile had faded. "I'm… free, right? I can do… I can do whatever I want?"

It was tempting to say 'yes.' Maybe he'd be better off trying to pull off a rescue of Bastila Shan from the Taris police prison without her crazy baggage. Maybe what Carth needed to do now was find a secure comm and call in the troops. If _Bastila Shan_ was captured by the Sith, it would take more than an ace pilot and a brain-damaged smuggler to rescue her anyway.

"We need to… to confirm your intel. About Bastila Shan. Okay?" _You're nuts, sister. Maybe it's just your head injury, making you think you know about Bastila. Maybe those Sith were just fracking with me. Maybe it's me they're after. Maybe they want to see who I call…. "And_ get you to a doc."

"You want me to ask some other Sith about her?"

"No!" He walked to the door, wondering if he should have given her the inside room. Cursing himself for not making an excuse to do that. _A little late now._ "You just… you just get some sleep now. We'll figure this out tomorrow."

Xxx

Bastila was not ashamed to admit she was terrified. There was no dishonor in fear.

She'd found an exit hatch that had led to some kind of sewer system; a maze of never-ending and branching paths. There was a darkness here as well; a wrongness, a taint, like something rotting and desperate and best avoided.

There were also repeated bursts of panic from Revan. Without their team of Jedi handlers, the woman's jumbled mind kept trying to reconcile the Deralian's knowledge with her innate abilities. In the best of times, under careful observation, this mental acrobatic had become a dim, but constant murmur in the back of Bastila's thoughts; but now, without the positive reinforcement of a dozen Jedi masters, Revan's disorientation bled the link between them with increasing force—threatening to swamp Bastila's own fragile peace.

_Why is Captain Obvious asking me how I know Mandalorian? Tion'jor vaabir ni kar'taylir mando? Ni jorhaa'ir… I speak. I speak a lot of languages. Ori'sol. I speak… many. Lots. Pakod. Easy. Big galaxy. Lots of people… lots of people speak. Jorhaa'ir. I… I hit my head. I was out for a while, I must have forgotten—_

_You speak many languages._ Bastila had to stop and close her eyes. _Mandalorian has common antecedents with both Ryl and Basic. Iridonian too, has many of the same roots. In your profession, it was quite useful to learn languages. You studied languages as a hobby. You have a natural gift. Do not question your gifts. Accept them._

_I'm going crazy. Talking to myself. The way he's looking at me, like he knows it. Those guys at the bar, maybe they knew it too, maybe they were only laughing at me. Fracking Sith hu'tuun—_

_Bar? Sith?_ Bastila willed herself not to panic.

Something the size of a womprat, only multi-legged and chitinous, lounged on the filthy sewer, blocking her path. Bastila stifled a yelp, summoning the Force to gently push it to one side.

 _One of the Force's creatures,_ she reminded herself. _Just like I am. As we all are, even—_

_I just have to find Holdan, get an in with Davik Kang and then I'll get the hell off this planet. Why is Mister Flyboy looking at me? He knows. He knows I'm losing my fracking head—_

Bastila heard herself whimper, because this was madness. _No. Listen to Carth Onasi. He is your friend. You trust him. You need to stay with him—_

Cold washed over her, as she felt the shadows press closer. _Forgive me,_ she begged the other. _I have my own problems now._ Her feet, given flight, slipped across the muck-filled floor, as she picked a descending ladder at random, and went deeper into the darkness.

_Xxx_

Polla's dreams were nightmares, nightmares of being chased by shadows in a dark place. Numbered doors, mechanical ladders. Everything was dark and slippery and scary. She had to keep running, or they would catch her. There were two of them maybe… but there was something else too. Something that was rotting and screaming with a hundred claws. She was running and sobbing—and that thing—

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry—_

_You can't run forever,_ she told herself. _Frack, hide! Hide and let them pass!_

But there was nowhere to hide. _They'll see. They'll find me—_

_Then kriffing fight! Shoot them. Use… use your-_

Her mind stumbled on the word. All she saw was a blur of yellow light.

 _Run._ Her feet slipped in the muck, her hands were skinned from where she'd fallen. _They're coming. They will not stop. Run._

"Polla!" An arm on her shoulder. "Wake up."

 _Wake up. That's what_ he _said. That man. That man on the ship._

_I must run, I have to keep running—_

"Polla!" Hand shook her again, but gently. "Wake up. I think you're having a nightmare."

_**Trust him. Save yourself—** _

Polla's eyes snapped open

Warm, brown ones stared back into hers. "Wake up," the pilot repeated. Hair, falling in his face. She wanted to push it back, away from his eyes, but he hardly knew her, and he thought she was nuts already. That was obvious.

"I trust you," Polla told him. "You're my friend, right?"

She'd fallen asleep. Dreamed about a woman, running. Her-and-and not. When Polla closed her eyes she could see the woman's hands again; muddy and scratched. _Not me. Not my hands. But_ _I know her she's—_

The woman's name escaped Polla, like space dust sparking off a deflector shield.

_She's—_

"You were screaming in your sleep." Carth Onasi looked nice with his hair tousled like that. Reminded her of someone. "Just came in to check on you."

"Sweet you're worried." Polla sat up, pulling the blanket over her shoulders, wrapping herself in it like a cape. "I was having one hell of a dream… but I-I don't need to worry, right? I-I can trust you?"

"Yeah," he smiled back at her. Trustworthy smile. She wondered if he was as good a pilot as he seemed to think he was. "We'll go see the doc at the medix in the morning. Get a handle on this. Maybe you should… catch a few more hours of shut-eye, if you can."

"You… you should too."

He looked exhausted.

"You'll need to stop screaming for me to do that." He gave her a pained smile. "I know it's… it's not your fault. Is there… do you want to talk about—is there anything you want to talk about?"

"No." She shook her head and closed her eyes again. "You're right, I'll sleep again." _Garod nishentye._

Xxx

" _This_ is your idea of damage control?" Beya Organa stepped gingerly into the muck. "Traipsing through the sewers ourselves after Shan?"

"We could hardly send Bandon." There was too much life down here—more than Davad had expected; as noisome and fetid and random as a plague. The Force sang; and within that cacophony Shan's power was only another spark—the brightest one, perhaps, but all of them blurred together for him into one long scream.

"I expected you to use your own men." Beya Organa glanced back at him, frowning suspiciously. "Aren't you the King of Onderon _and_ Malak's Second? Don't you have minions?"

"As much as you're Queen of Deralia," he snapped. "Or does broken Rev get that title now, since they patchworked some Deralian Jedi's mind into a Force-blind persona for her?"

"There's something up ahead." She was ignoring him, moving deftly to take the lead, as if they were back on the Xoxon killing fields again; when Davad had been the Force shield to her spear. "A lot of somethings, in fact."

"Shan?" Something, definitely something in the Force—someone—but it felt dark. Wilder than Shan. And not strong enough to be Revan, if such a creature as his Starfire could ever be born again.

_You no longer exist, Master._

_Master._ That word still felt branded on his soul, even after her death; even after he had been forced to renew his pledge to the other. The old woman had told him of Revan's rebirth and warned him she was truly gone in nearly the same breath, but somehow Davad still couldn't believe it—would have refused to believe it—if not for the evidence on the _Spire._

That blank, green-eyed space where his lover should have been.

"I believe that it's Shan, ahead of us in those tunnels." But Beya didn't sound sure. "Definitely a Force user. But… not alone. There's something… something else." Her comm beeped, loud and strange in the dim muck.

His gut rumbled. "Something edible, I hope," Davad quipped. "I've already missed my dinner reservation."

"A moment." Beya sounded distracted, swiping a message back to whatever lover or minion was on the other end of the comm.

Her own dinner plans, no doubt. His stomach rumbled again.

Xxx

 _Two weeks ago, Davad had been on his ship the_ Demon Moon _only a few light years from the ashes of Endor. He had been alone with his supper, as was his custom, his thoughts gratefully diminished into the simplicity of crunch and bone._

_And then, the old woman's voice had intruded, with the temerity of a cannock herd._

" _Malak plans to capture Bastila Shan and shatter the Jedi Fleet; but there is another prize aboard the Jedi's flagship: a secret one, which I require—"_

" _Do you_ ever _knock?" Davad refused to turn around—half the time when her voice broke into his thoughts with the subtlety of a Force choke there was no one there._

_Besides, he… he was—messy. An inconvenient time. He reached for a napkin to wipe the grease from his mouth, his chin, and set the nearly-raw haunch of ronto down on the table. His hands were bloody with its juices._

" _Your needs have increased." Her interest in that sharpened. He could almost feel that too, like a needle in his skull._

How did you even get on my ship? _He wanted to ask. But no use. Their shadows called her the 'Mother of Lies.' She came without warning; she came with her commands and Davad was bound to follow them._

_And he did. Ever since Malachor._

" _It's dinner, don't you eat too?" Davad licked the juice from his hand, salty and pungent and… fat. Resisted the urge to bury his face back in the feast._

" _There is not enough meat for two. Not enough for a hundred when the beast calls you." Her voice was scornful. What passed for a jest. He'd heard the Other make her laugh, (on the rare occasions of their meeting), but Davad received no such indulgence._

_It got worse, this hunger, when the old woman was close._

_Indeed, he had known she was close by the gnawing emptiness in his gut._

_Ever since Malachor._

" _The name of the ship is the_ Endar Spire. _Shan is the prize, of course… but there is another. Or rather, the shell of another. Give Shan to Malak. You will bring the shell to me."_

" _The shell? The shell who?" These games. Davad was heartily sick of them. Master Arren Kae claimed to have the means to defeat Malak… but did nothing. Not for the first time, he considered turning her in—_

 _Of course, to_ her, _his thoughts were an unlocked datapad._

 _She chuckled softly now, hearing them. "You cannot betray me, Beast-Lord. You, who have been betrayed at every turn, are still loyal to_ Revan. _A loyal beast, even to one you think dead—"_

_Davad snorted, sinking his hand into the meat and ripping off a chunk. "Oh, I saw Revan die—the same as you did. Are you going to offer me Sheris after we kill Malak together? I must regretfully decline. And I believe the lady would as well."_

_Malak might enjoy looking at the gene-spliced twin of his dead wife… Davad did_ not _enjoy looking at her. Looking at her made him feel ill. He shoved the succulence into his mouth quickly, letting the taste melt in his throat._

" _I will not offer what is not mine to give."_

_Kae paused, long enough for Davad to choke down the meat, and demand more explanation—and then launched into a fantastical tale of Jedi mindwipes, and a flawed Jedi redemption._

_There was a long silence after she was done, before Davad carefully picked up the cleanest napkin next to his plate and wiped his eyes, blinking them until he saw clearly once more._

Too _clearly._

_If what Kae said was even half true, (and the Mother of Lies liked the truth, it made her subterfuge more palatable), then his mindwiped master would be as helpless as a newborn nerf in her former empire._

" _Why?" he asked._

And if Sheris isn't yours to give, why is Revan? _But that was a question he did not dare ask. For he wanted Revan. He wanted Kae's lies to be true. He…_ _he_ hungered _for them to be true._

" _Why?" Kae chuckled softly, under the hood of her dark robes. "Have I taught you nothing, my apprentice?"_

Nothing I hadn't learned from _Revan_ first. _"Why would the Jedi save Revan from the brink of death? Why mindwipe her? Why give her the personality of a Deralian peasant?"_

" _Perhaps I told them to." Kae laughed softly. "Or perhaps, they too seek an end—some of them. Malak's power increases unchecked, and with it—"_

" _Why now? If you knew, why not take her before? This mindwiped shell of yours?" Davad scoffed. For all her power, all her shadow army, her abilities to cast illusions, to cloud men's minds… Kae could not hide her true nature from Davad any more than he could hide his from her._

_And that was how he knew that something had gone wrong with Kae's games. Her anger and frustration beat through the Force like a red tide. A hunger there too—it strengthened him, sustained them both._

_And had: ever since Malachor._

" _May you never have the misfortune of choice, Beast-Lord." Her voice cracked slightly. "The fate of the galaxy or the fate of your family? Your world? I made such choices. Revan made such choices."_

" _I have no family," he muttered. "Both of you saw to that."_

 _And then Arren Kae told him the coordinates and ship's codes. All the information needed for Lord Malak to pull the_ Spire _out of orbit. All the information needed to find a locked wing, off the main level, heavily guarded (but no match for his power), an unmarked door, and inside—_

_Davad had assumed that Kae's claim was a trap, a trick, but behind the locked door Revan lay sleeping like a princess out of legend-pale and still as a corpse. At first, he even thought she could have been a corpse-somehow preserved, inexplicably altered-her hair dyed a drab brown, the sides of her scalp shaved... but then she turned her head, mumbling something in her sleep—_

_And then, those wide set eyes opened, staring blankly, all their light extinguished, that strange perfection of her skin, unsullied and new—_

_His former Master could almost have been Sheris before she opened her mouth._

_Xxx_

_She did not know me. That woman was not my master. Not my Revan._

Something nagged at Davad, like a needle in his skull. Kae had… had wanted the shell of Revan retrieved. Commanded him, and yet—

 _And yet I—_ The thought slipped away even as he reached for it. _And yet I—_

_I was commanded to retrieve her. But I did not. Is that her game? Or mine?_

"Well?" He demanded, when Beya Organa gave no further response.

"My agents see no trace of Shan in the Upper City," she replied blandly.

"What about Revvie?" He smiled as if he was joking.

"She's not our concern, remember? Malak wants Bastila Shan."

Beya's lie screamed through the Force, a hammer through his skull. It took Davad a moment to realize that the scream was outside—that the scream was real.

Xxx

Someone was screaming. Not very far away. Not just with words, but in the Force as well. And it wasn't Revan—dimly, Bastila sensed the other woman asleep. Dreaming uneasily in a narrow bed, but dreaming. No, this sentient was closer. And suffering.

"Is someone there?" She softened her voice, trying to project an aura of calm that she certainly did not feel.

"Stay away!" A woman's voice, young. "Whoever you are, stay _away!"_ The voice choked. "Oh, Force, they… they're waiting. I think they _know._ They know what I will become and they're waiting—stay back! Please! I will… I will not see another hurt!"

"I can help," Bastila assured her, moving forward. The tunnel forked, and she could see now, with the Force enhancing her eyes, the huddled clump of rags resolving itself into a Padawan's robes. A young Togruta looked up at her, eyes wild and terrified.

"You can't," the child whispered. "I thought I could help the villagers. I tried… but it's too, late… I-I can feel it. Save yourself, Knight Shan, you must! Run away!"

"Padawan," Bastila corrected her. A common mistake—and not one that rankled when she thought of creatures like Bandon. Not at all.

"Pada—" the girl whispered, voice breaking off into an agonizing scream. "It hurts! Burns—please, please make it stop! Please!"

She threw her head back, monotails twisting in agony, and then the heavy ridges of bone along her skull seemed to… to ripple. There was a cracking, sickly noise like bones breaking.

"Please! Pleezzze…." The girl's voice cracked and splintered, as her face began to… to shift. Her arms bent back, limbs twisting into impossible angles. Barbs of what looked like bone poked through her skin.

 _Force! What is—_ Bastila dashed forward, unthinkingly, hands outstretched, trying to help. "I'm here," she soothed, even as the girl transformed before her eyes, shedding off her sentient skin, transforming into… a creature of nightmares before her eyes—

"Back!" she commanded, drawing on the Force, freezing the pathetic thing that had once been Padawan Triss Dar (the name coming belatedly to mind, and far too late to help Triss at all). "Stay back!"

The transformed monster shed the remains of its robes like discarded skin, howling a challenge.

Flesh chilled Bastila's arms as she heard identical calls from behind her, from the side—from every direction save one.

No time for reflection—she turned and ran.

Xxx

"Rakghouls." Davad stopped dead, blocking all egress in the narrow corridor. "That smell! I should have realized before."

"Really?" Beya scoffed. "Didn't we eliminate them the first time we liberated this planet?"

And what a heady time that been: hailed as heroes; Revan insisting on airlifting the pod of refugee children; Malak trying to keep their names out of the press so his father and the Senate didn't know the Jedi had committed to war; Beya and Gliz assigned to defending the Taris Academy… and where had Arkan been?

Beya smiled slightly. _That's right, sulking over a woman who didn't know he existed._

"Apparently not." Davad edged closer to the wall. "I assume your ignorance means you brought no antidote."

"It takes some time, generally, the transformation." She would not give him the satisfaction of showing fear.

"Sometimes," he replied. "Sometimes days, a week—even. But other times, it's fast. Extremely fast. Did that Republic science team ever learn why?"

Beya had been one of the liberators of the Tarisian science labs years ago. Experiments destroyed, hysterical Selkath and Ithorian researchers… it had been all they could do to grab the rakghoul antidote before the next bombing run.

"No." She shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Another scream echoed in the caverns ahead. Then a roar, like the call of a wild sea.

"It sounds like a lot of them," Beya drawled. "Did you want to go first, Lord Arkan? You do outrank me."

"I defer to your superior ability with a blade."

"From what I hear, these days, you prefer to use your teeth." She smiled at him, showing hers.

"Our Lord Malak will be vexed if his prize padawan is eaten by rakghouls." Davad quite obviously feigned checking his chron. But then his comm chimed. Once. Twice.

He glanced down at it frowning.

"Aren't you going to get that?" Beya asked him sweetly.

Her own comm message had been quite educational.

Xxx

" _The unauthorized copy of…_ her _is contained, and under constant surveillance," Lieutenant Idra had said, the night before, when Beya's cautionary bulletin bore fruit. " The_ _… clone is traveling with a Republic Officer, a Captain Carth Onasi. Is this some kind of Republic trap for Lord Malak?"_

" _Undoubtedly."_ And one he will never thank me for containing. _But his consort might. Sheris might be very appreciative indeed._

_Idris looked up at her from the bed. "Some of the other officers… they've seen Sheris. They know enough to feign ignorance, but—"_

" _The woman—and her Republic officer—may yet lead us to Shan. Make sure the orders are quite clear: no impediments to their progress. Assistance should be minimal and unobtrusive. Republic officers are trained to see watchers: make it too easy, the captain may grow suspicious; but if they happen to_ find _Bastila Shan..."_

" _Yes, my Lord." Idra twisted her long, dark hair with her fingers, evoking a memory of Beya's own hands doing the same, not so long ago._

Xxx

And now, Idra's latest report placed Carth Onasi and his charge in a hotsheet hotel in one of Taris's corporate districts. The woman spent credits like a drunk Deralian—Beya found that fact strangely comforting—Revan never had, barely even carried them, and of course, Malak—

But there was no use chasing shadows of the past. Not when her future was at stake.

Arkan was still keying in some message of his own. A plot, she assumed. Probably to further discredit Bandon and save himself from Malak's wrath.

It occurred to Beya that she and Davad had one obstacle standing between them and their twinned objects of desire, but this seemed a bad time to dive into betrayal.

_And I have more to lose. Malak might give you that pathetic shell in exchange for my life, but he would never give me Sheris—_

"Shall we?" She gestured to the tunnel. "We do _want_ to find Shan, correct?"

"Of course," Davad replied mockingly. "Together, so we have every assurance she comes to no permanent harm."

"Of course." She matched his smile and wondered how to dispose of him.

 _Is Shan strong enough to kill you, Davad?_ Not on her own, perhaps. But with an unexpected alliance….

Xxx

The scan of the Deralian's brain appeared in three-dimensional holographic display, floating in the air while the woman herself was masked by the resonator: face a blank, metal ovoid, bisected by the resonator's scanning lines.

Carth was no expert, but… Polla Organa's brain just looked like… a brain. Not that he'd seen many—any, except on those true crime dramas Morgana used to watch.

"Hrm…." Doctor Zelka Forn was chatty—about everything except his work.

He'd already had a lot to say about the Sith crackdown, the fate of the evacuees from the _Endar Spire,_ and the Sith checkpoints that now isolated the Lower City from the Upper.

According to Forn, the Republic soldiers that the Sith had picked up were lucky compared to the ones whose pods had crashed on the ground. He'd launched into an improbable tale about a mutagenic virus loose in the sublevels, and claimed that only the Sith had the cure.

Carth had his doubts—the rumor sounded just like the kind of fear-mongering that bastards like the Sith would set up to divide sents: fear was a Sith's stock in trade, after all; but the man claimed there was some kind of bioscanner on the subs that scanned for infection and then shot on sight when it was detected.

"So, there _is_ a cure?" Polla asked, words muffled through the mask. "But the Sith assholes won't let anybody have it?"

Forn adjusted some controls on his datapad, and the image of her brain rotated. "Yes. It's a serum. I could synthesize their anti-viral if I had a sample. But they aren't letting folks down there. Not without the right idchips. Not civilians."

"Yeah, we heard about the lockdown the other night," Carth told him.

"We can help…" Polla added, improbably.

Carth's jaw dropped open.

"I don't see how, but it's kind of you to offer." The doctor smiled.

"Well…" Her voice slipped into a careless drawl that Carth was beginning to realize was anything but. "Probably a lot of credits to be made if someone starts the distribution right."

_And there it is._

The incredulous laugh died in Carth's throat, replaced by inevitability. "We're not in this for credits," he gritted. "Just looking for a way off this rock. Maybe… maybe with a few of our friends."

"Hrm," Doc Forn said as if he'd already moved on. "You said you were in a coma for two months, Miz Organa?"

"Three? I don't..." her voice trailed off. "Can I take this thing off yet?"

"In a moment." He shook his head frowning. "Remarkable."

"What?" Panic edged in her voice. "Please. Let me out if this thing. It… it feels like the sky is pressing… pressing down. I hate it."

"Jedi healing." The Doc motioned to Carth, waved at the scan. "Jedi healing is incredible. There's no sign of damage at all—not even scarring. Remarkable. Kolto's a miracle drug too; but nothing like this. If it wasn't for the edging here…." He traced a shadow on the top of double lines representing her skull. "If it weren't for that, I wouldn't believe she'd been hurt at all; but there's a regrowth line—see? Skull graft. Stars knows what her injury looked like _before_ the healing… not good, if they had to regrow bone."

Suspicion bloomed in Carth's chest. "I never said there were Jedi with us."

"Your ship was part of the Jedi Fleet?" The doc snorted. "We might be an occupied planet, but we still get Republic broadcasts. And… there are rumors about Jedi. I heard Hope of the Republic was on the _Spire."_

"Did you now…." Carth eyed the exits to the room.

"Who?" Polla reached her hands up, tugging at the mask over her face.

"Bastila Shan. Don't move that—" Doc started to get up, but it was too late.

The smuggler stood up. "Bastila Shan," she repeated. A slight frown on her face. "She's the Hope of the Republic? Why?"

"Don't ask me," Doc Forn said. "Something about Battle Meditation?"

"I bet that wins a lot of fights, meditation." Polla snorted, glancing at Carth. "Does it, Flyboy? How come it didn't win _this_ one? How come we crash landed on this rock?"

"It's not Bastila's fault." Although he'd wondered the exact same thing, much as he'd wondered why they'd given a junior Jedi officer command of her own flagship.

"Well, it's not _mine—_ or yours—either." Polla turned to the doctor. "So, there's a mutie plague in the lower levels, a quarantine, and… a bunch of Republic escape pods crashed down there? Survivors?"

Carth couldn't help but notice the man's furtive glance towards the back of his office, and a door that looked freshly marked as 'storage.'

"Rumored survivors. Yes," the man said. "But the Sith are collecting the Jedi—those that they find."

_Damn. We could use Jedi help to rescue Bastila._

"Or, she could be dead," Polla added brightly. "Or infected with the rakghoul plague-thing."

Xxx

Bastila had long since stopped using logic, or reason to guide her path. Now it was pure adrenaline that sent her careening through the tunnels, picking access points at random, journeying ever-deeper into a maze of dank and twisted tunnels—only too-aware of the monsters—and something far worse—at her back.

 _Dark Jedi. Fallen ones._ Two, she thought. The patterns of their Force felt vaguely familiar—but twisted, like slow, dying screams. They were farther away now, held in check by the same creatures that Bastila feared.

She'd read about the rakghoul plague: the mysterious affliction that had dogged the Taris sublevels for hundreds of years—perhaps longer, if some stories were to be believed. A cure had been synthesized rather recently; although obviously too late to help the poor, maddened creatures that were chasing her now.

A cure had been synthesized, but too late to help Padawan Dar, who had done nothing to deserve her fate but be selected to be part of Bastila's escort.

And now, Bastila's fate as well—

 _Would that you could rescue_ me, she thought rather bitterly to the woman whose fate had doomed her own.

Xxx

"Hessi walked…."

"Over your grave. You've said that a lot."

She'd talked to Doc Forn in private and come out subdued, almost meek. But Polla's former brashness returned out here in the streets, enough to tell off a few drunks, and then amble right though a Sith patrol with that damnable Sith officer's hat on her head, as if she owned the place.

Polla Organa was one hell of an actress though because the crowds parted like water to let them through.

"I was thinking we need to get to the Lower City," she offered, peering over the edge of one of the plats again and frowning. "Right?" She twirled the hat on her hand, with more success than she'd shown with Carth's blaster before, because the hat didn't go flying off into the depths of nowhere.

"I was thinking we should… figure out a way to check out the Taris police logs," he offered back. _And find a secure comm to call for help._ Forn hadn't offered, even when Carth dropped a lot of hints. Suppose he couldn't blame the man—the man had a target on his back, just helping at all.

"Why?" She pursed her lips in thought. "No, what we're gonna do is, get down there, see if Holdan can hook me up with a ship, and maybe find some of that serum or whatever to stop the rakghouls." She paused. "And be rich."

"You heard Forn. And your Sith friends the other night? No one gets down there anymore—I got us out just in time, looks like. Not without authorization."

"We should have gone to that Sith party last night," she muttered. "On Block C? We could have stolen some uniforms, idchips, easy. Johan said they have parties every night. They have their own rec room. Sounds like a blast."

"So now you want to go to a Sith party—"

She was insane. She wasn't going to help. Carth needed to get to a comm, call in the guns, search for more survivors, maybe Forn had some hidden in that back room of his—

XXX

 _What a_ _puking_ mess.

The Imperial Guard assigned to escort their prize were growing restless: Bandon could feel their fear and uncertainty, hear their hushed whispers, even two rooms away—such was the extent of his power.

His own rage would have been sweeter had it not been also futile: in front of him, the blasted corpses of the mewling excuse for a security force told no more tales—not that any were needed. The holes in the floor of the TarSec station, Lord Arkan's absence… all told their own tale quite well enough.

A choked gasp gulped behind him as another foolish administrator stumbled on the scene, no doubt drawn by the disaster alarms Bandon's prodigious Force lightning seemed to have triggered.

"You," he hissed, without turning. "Send a communication to Beya Organa and tell her to report here at once. It seems that Lord Arkan has fled with Malak's prize. We must retrieve both before Malak learns of this—and then tell him of Arkan's betrayal—"

"P-pardon, m-my Lord, but B-beya Organa was… she was…."

Any further words the worm had were lost when the man's neck snapped in two.

Bandon flexed his fingers and sighed, reaching for his comm. "I did not require conversation," he muttered. "Only results."

He would have to lay a trap for Arkan himself.

_I will summon Beya myself as well. But first, I will tell Lord Malak of his Second's treachery…._

Xxx

 _I can't keep running._ Bastila knew it in her bones, in the Force itself. The Sith and the rakghoul horde together had herded Bastila into an area of the sewers where the tunnels had narrowed, the air grown bad. Earlier, she might have— _should_ have—attempted to tunnel herself out in much the same way she had descended, but the ceiling above now felt loose in her perceptions, made of ancient layers of rusted durasteel and cerma.

Her breath heaved in and out, ragged and exhausted. She wiped stinging sweat from her eyes, willing her body to process the oxygen more efficiently, to cool her skin, to remain calm—

 _Stop running._ She closed her eyes. _Maybe falling to the rakghoul plague is a kinder fate than the one Malak has in store for me._

 _So cold._ Revan's damaged mind was a strange echo. _I need to find Holdan. I need a ship. I'm free. I can do whatever I—I can do whatever I want. To find Holdan I need to get down to the sublevels. Exchange must have some way past the checkpoints, there's always a way past._

 _No._ Bastila focused with all her strength, all that she still possessed. _You must not come here. It's not safe, they will find you—_

_They will find me? Who? Who will find me? Who the frack are you? I'm losing my mind—_

_They will find me and break me. They broke you, and you were the finest of us all—_

_I'm losing my mind. I'm hallucinating. I hear voices. No wonder he's looking at me like that! That doc said the Jedi healed my brain—what was… what was wrong with it? What's happening to me?_

_I cannot help you. I tried. It was to be a mercy. It was supposed to be mercy—_

The howls were closer.

 _You will die here, Bastila._ Her own voice in her mind this time. Cold and strangely rational. _The rakghoul will tear you to pieces before the Sith can save you._

_Is that what you want?_

_I don't want to die!_ The smuggler's thoughts, her panic, echoed by Bastila's own.

They called her the Hope of the Republic. She had never felt she deserved it, never been worthy of her gift; but she had seen her Battle Meditation turn the tide. She had seen the results. She had received honors. She had learned that her status as a figurehead meant as much to the Jedi, the Senate, and the Fleet as her abilities.

The howls were closer now. Much closer. _Closer than the Sith._

_The Sith cannot save me from the rakghoul_ _, but the rakghoul can save me from…._

Bastila dropped to her knees and brought her palms together.

They began to glow.

Xxx

"Bandon Agare is back," Beya said. Her voice sounded amused, as she scrolled through her comm, still trudging through the tunnels.

"Oh?" Davad kept his voice cheerful, with some effort, slowing his pace to match hers.

"He wants _me_ to assist in a search for _you_ and Bastila Shan. He seems to have concluded you've run off with Malak's prize."

Davad stopped walking. 'Well, you've found me _._ Congratulations. _"_ For some reason, his mouth watered. He held out his hands, keeping his gaze steady on hers. Any sudden movement would be matched: his raw strength against her superior skill with a blade—

Beya snorted. "Bandon's a child telling tales at school. He'll run to Malak—if he hasn't already. That endangers… other assets _you_ may wish to protect more than your own skin."

"What assets? I left _Revan_ to die on the _Endar Spire,"_ he reminded her. But his pulse increased. And suddenly, he could hear hers too. Just as tense as his own.

"I find that so hard to believe." Beya smiled at him. "There has to be more to the tale."

 _I left her to die._ Only… it was not only that—was it?

_Kae told me to take her. Kae told me she needed her. The old woman gave me an order, and I—_

" _You_ let her go as well," he countered. "I still don't understand why. If it hadn't been for your betrayal at Deralia, none of this—"

"Do you think if _Revan_ was still Lord of the Sith you'd be ruling at her side?" Beya's lips bared in a snarl. "Or does that even matter, if she let you back into her bed? She was shedding attachments—you and I would both be dead by now. If she would kill _Malak,_ do you really think she'd keep us alive?"

"My life is hers." He spoke the words before he thought them. Weak words. Foolish ones.

Her blade ignited, sparking blue. Unlike most of them, Beya still used her knight's saber. It lacked the killing edge of a red, but with the power of her blows behind it, the crystal's advantage hardly mattered. "Will you sacrifice it now, Davad? To save her? If I bring back _your_ body, Malak will not question either of us—"

"You're doing this for love? After you killed her?"

"Not for _her."_ Her eyes were feral, teeth pulled back. She took a step forward, and Davad still wasn't sure if he was going to let her do it—

And then… a rushing noise, like water, like the tide, a roar from a thousand throats. Increasing—screaming—

The rakghoul tide broke over them both and in a haze of teeth and claw, Davad discovered he wasn't ready to die after all. His blade flashed red, and cut through them like water.

No time to die. Not when there was so much _meat_ left in the world _._

XXX

_So many. So strong. So… hungry._

Nothing like the cold dark of the Sith, nothing like the bright hope of Republic soldiers. Nothing like bolstering courage or faith. Bastila was channeling pure need now—rage—despair—

_It's dark, it's so dark and there is power here—so much. Is this what they felt, the Knights D'Reev? This power?_

Later, when she thought back, Bastila knew that was the true moment when she'd realized that hope and courage could inspire an army—but hatred and hunger could _drive_ a mob.

And driving was much more effective.

XXX

A block from the police station, Polla grabbed Carth's arm. "Stop."

"Stop?" But he did, looking at her as if he thought she was nuts.

"The sky," she said, looking up. It was the color of blue milk, normal, a dim sun high above. Normal, except for the lack of air traffic, but that was the Sith, _that_ was normal. He'd said so, when she asked him five times already.

He was looking at her now like he thought she was crazy still.

_You think I'm crazy, Carth Onasi. I think I'm crazy. But the sky—_

_Xxx_

" _You wanted to speak to me alone…?" Doctor Forn prompted as Polla struggled to find the right words. "It isn't… is it something to do with that man who brought you here?"_

" _Huh?" It took her a moment. "What? No! I mean… not really. Carth is… nice. He's kind." Her cheeks felt too hot suddenly, which was strange because she never blushed. "No, he saved me. He's been very kind, but I… I think I might be… I think I might be losing it."_

" _Losing what?" The man didn't seem to understand._

Or he wants you to say it. Just say it.

" _My mind." Sometimes you need to be blunt was what Ma always said. "I-I hear voices. Whispers in my head. I have dreams. I know things I don't remember."_

Languages. I know a lot of languages, except I remember flunking Ryl in school and the Huttese I picked up would make a Hutt blush.

" _Just because my scans saw no damage doesn't mean there was none." His voice gentled. "You were given extensive Jedi healing. That doesn't just happen. With head injuries memory loss is common. From what you —uh,_ _from what I've heard, the invasion of your ship by Malak's forces was violent. You may have witnessed trauma—"_

" _Malak?" For a second the name was just syllables._ Mal. Eck. Mal. Eym. Eym—

_"The leader, self-proclaimed Dark Lord of the—"_

_"Yeah, I know." She shrugged._

" _You're pale as water. Here." He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small envelope. "Anxiety is normal, and these are not normal times. These are trank patches. Don't take more than two in one day. And no alcohol or death sticks." He frowned, as if a habit was Polla's problem here and not being trapped on a strange planet on the lam from the fracking Sith._

" _Thanks." It was kind of him, even if it didn't help._

I'm not scared of some Sith Boogeyman. I'm scared I'm losing my mind.

" _Look, if we come across that serum rakghoul stuff, I won't charge you for it."_

" _That's… nice of you." His smile had hardened and for a second she wondered what she'd said wrong._

" _Everything okay in there?" The door apexed open to Carth Onasi's smiling face. Fake joviality, strained mouth._

" _Everything's great." Polla flashed him the smile she'd used on those tariff agents back on Kessel, to get their untaxed spice past the patrol. "Just clearing some stuff up, you know?"_

Xxx

Now, Polla took a deep breath. The air was strangely sweet and flat at the same time. Clean. Not like—not like it would be a thousand meters down where the scrubbers failed. For a second, her throat choked, and then a dank, rotting smell threatened to make her puke.

_I'm losing my mind._

_It's dark, it's so dark and there is power here._

_What the frack? If it's dark, turn on the fracking lights!_

Polla looked up at the sky again. Not dark at all. Except… it _felt_ dark. Like dark pressing up and down at the same time. Boxing her in. Like no lights would help save her. Like nothing could stop it.

"We have to get off this fracking planet," she told Captain Obvious. "I _hate_ this fracking planet."

"We'll do a little recon and then take you back to the Doc." Carth's smile looked the same now; like he'd welded it on his face. "Okay? Here… you… you put these on." He pulled out a pair of goggles he'd bought earlier at a kiosk and handed them to her; put the other pair on his own face. "Just… can't hurt, right? Someone might have… they might be looking for us. We're gonna check out that police lead. See if they have her—"

"You want to go _into_ the station? The station with Taris Security? Police?" She glanced back the way they'd come. There was a row of dress shops that made her—made her think of something. "We can't just waltz in there!"

"We have to know." He was fracking stubborn.

Was that something they taught in Republic school? Being stubborn and stupid? _Sounds about right. Those pathetic fools let themselves be manipulated._ "Know what?" She interrupted her own thought because it was terrifying—didn't even feel like her own.

"Bastila." Carth lowered his voice. "If the Sith have Bastila—"

"If the Sith have her, she's fracking dead," Polla told him. "I saw them. I saw the Sith. I saw this guy… he was gonna kill me. He did kill _Trask._ And that kid, that woman—"

"Woman? Bastila? Of course, you saw Bastila. You were assigned to her. Working with her?"

The world felt like it was tilting. "I don't know Bastila. Not yet. But we have to find her—"

"That's what I just said." He reached for her arm. "You—you seem… confused. It's okay. I think you need to lie down. Maybe we should go back to the doc now. Maybe better if I check out TarSec alone anyways."

" _No!"_ He seemed to be moving slowly. Polla sidestepped easily, brought both hands up in case he tried to grab her again. "I'm free!" she told him. "Frack you! I'm free!"

"Easy." His voice was easy. Easy and fake.

She was suddenly aware of her weapons, the ion rifle hanging down her back, the blaster in her boot… but it was the stun stick in her pocket that her hand went for, resting her fingers on it like… like….

"Easy," Carth repeated. "Polla, I'm on your side. Remember?"

"I don't remember Bastila. But you said I was assigned." Pressing down. Like the sky above. "Assigned to _her._ To Bastila."

"You hit your head." His hand reached out, even a few meters away, extending it. Universal gesture of friendship. For sents who had hands anyway. "Maybe… let me at least take you back to the hotel."

"No." She shook her head. It didn't hurt anymore. That had to be good, right? "Look, I know you think I'm crazy, but I've got a plan. Those officers we met last night—they have parties every night. Section C, B-block. They told me? We'll go to one tonight. Steal credentials or uniforms… or armor. Then we'll get to the Lower City. See if we can find your Bastila—"

"Bastila's captured. You told me that yourself! You said you heard it from the Sith!"

"Yeah, I… I think she was. Okay, frack her." _I sound insane. I am insane._ "Whatever. We can milk the Sith at the party for more information, okay? And Holdan's in the Lower City. Exchange connections. Our kind of people. We… we need to get back down there. _Now._ You should never have brought us up here to the sky—"

His brows drew together into a glower. "Sorry, sis. I did think you might be dying of a brain hemorrhage."

"Yeah, well, next time, just let me die. It was foolish. A tactical mistake—"

"Tactical—" he shook his head, looking at her as if he thought this might be a joke. "You… you're sliding in thin orbit now."

"Too late." She heard her own breath hiss out sharply. _"Look."_

A ship was descending straight down from the blue milk sky; black, and pointed, and cold; its escort trailing in its wake like anchors.

_The sky pressing down on me. Pressing down. It's bad. It's darkness. It's my death._

XXX

" _Look!"_ Her hand pointed at the sky, shaking. The teasing tone in her voice had vanished. Been replaced, with raw fear.

A troop carrier was descending from the sky. Carth had seen the design before—hell, he'd shot a few down himself before—but unlike those this one was plated black, and escorted by four Sith fighters.

"Too late," Polla repeated. She laughed nervously and took a step backward. She pushed those goggles he'd given her up on her forehead, then took another step. She still had one hand up, like she was waiting to block him. It was the other in her pocket that worried him more. "There's something bad on that ship."

"Sith. Goes with the territory," he snapped. "I know you think they make great drinking buddies, but they're all fracking bad. Revan and Malak were the best the galaxy had, and then they—"

All the color seemed to leave her face at once. Her arms dropped. She wavered on her feet, eyes closing.

"Polla? _Polla!"_ He had to grab her, grab her to keep her from falling over. "Easy. _Easy—_ don't faint on me!"

Her arms tightened around him. _Still conscious then._ She made a choked sound, like a sob. "We need to get off the street." Voice a hoarse whisper in his ear. "I know you think I'm crazy, but we need to get off the street _now. Please."_

Something in her voice—Carth looked around wildly. There, a row of shops. One was marked off with what looked like security tape, but the one next door was open—

"Can you walk?" he muttered. "There's a store—right over there." He slipped an arm under her shoulders, holding her up. Her topknot brushed his chin.

"Yeah," she pulled away from him, a little unsteady, but back on her own generator. "I know how this looks. I know…." Her hand grabbed him, and she dragged Carth into a dress shop. A fancy-dress shop, although its opulence was somewhat marred by the police barricades around the shop next door. Crime scene, looked like. Weird that it had happened across from a TarSec station, but hey, it was a Sith planet.

"May I help you?" The shopkeeper was blonde, with artificially tan skin and eyes almost as green as Polla's—although on her, they looked fake. The disdain in her voice suggested she thought they were beyond any help at all.

"Yeah… uh, my—sister here's just a little dizzy," Carth lied. "Mind if we sit down a sec? She's… she's been ill."

"Ill? Actually, I _do_ mind." The woman seemed rattled. Very rattled. Maybe it was the crime scene next door. "There's a clinic down on the next platform. If you need medical attention, seek it there."

"Wait—" Polla pulled out of his arms. And then, just like he'd seen so many times in the two days he'd known her conscious, Polla Organa, crazy smuggler, seemed to switch off her scared and confused act. She flashed the shop lady a brilliant smile and strolled over to the racks, thumbing through the clothes like they were in her personal closet.

"You have anything for a party?" she asked almost from the middle of the rack. "And underwear. I need underwear."

The Human proprietor looked at them disdainfully.

"We serve a very exclusive clientele here," she said haughtily. "Perhaps you might be more comfortable shopping in the _Lower_ City?"

 _The one that's under quarantine?_ Carth wanted to ask, but it seemed wiser to hold his tongue.

Polla laughed and fingered the blue fabric of a dress disdainfully. "Off-season harvest," she drawled. "See? The threads are uneven. Machine woven. Dregs." She raised an eyebrow, and her topknot flopped to one side. "Don't try and cheat a Deralian, citizen..." Her mouth curled into a smirk. "I'll give you fifty credits."

The woman sputtered in outrage. "The price is five hundred credits. I think you should leave now, before I call security."

"We don't want any trouble," Carth began, grabbing Polla's arm. The damn smuggler was going to get them arrested or worse. She shook him off, widening her green eyes in a protestation of innocence.

"I'm going to a party," she told the woman. "Exclusive. With the… local authorities, if you know what I mean?" Her smile slanted. "Look. This eridu you're getting is trash. Who's your distributor? Perhaps I could put in a word for you."

 _"Polla—"_ Carth grabbed her arm and pulled. This whole plan was insane. Go to a Sith cocktail party and steal uniforms? "I don't think it's the kind of party you need to dress up for," he hissed in her ear.

Her smile faltered. "Is there any other kind?" She shrugged and turned back to the woman. "Okay, look. Frack the dress. We're here for information. Do you know anything about the Republic escape pods that crashed in the lower city?"

"I'm calling security." The proprietor backed away from them both and went towards the counter.

Carth dragged Polla Organa out of the store by the scruff of her ragged jacket. Her shoulders were shaking with quiet laughter.

"Back home we use eridu like that for dishtowels," she said disdainfully. She held one hand to her chest, like she was holding something under her coat.

"Yeah, well _here_ we're across from that police station." That Sith ship she'd been freaking out about could have been for Bastila. She could be already captured. "Are you nuts?"

"Maybe. A bit." Polla reached in her pocket and pulled out a small packet, ripped it open. Inside a packet of derms—they were blue. Carth wasn't sure what kind.

"What's that?" he demanded.

"Something from the Doc." She took four of them and pressed them on her arm, shoved the rest back in her pocket. Took a deep breath. Glanced across the street at the police station again and shivered. "I know you think I'm nuts."

"I-I think you hit your head pretty hard," he began.

"The doctor said that the… when I hit my head before… he said memory loss is pretty common. And confusion. I'm going to get better." Green eyes searched his face. "I am, right?"

"First we have to get off this rock." He gave her a wan smile.

"First let's get the hell off this plat," Polla said, pulling that damnable Sith cap out of her other pocket. "Here. Put this on…." She smiled slyly and pulled a long, black coat out from under her ragged one. The fabric fell, heavy and long, rippling in the slight breeze. "Not sure this robe will fit you… so I'll pretend to be the scary Dark Jedi. _You_ can be the scary Dark Jedi's officer."

"Did you just… did you _steal_ that?"

"Haven't done anything like that since I was a dumb teener." Her grin glinted, somehow lighting up her entire face. "Yeah. It's Imperial Weave too. Not everything in that store was trash."

Polla glanced back over their shoulder, suddenly quickening her pace. The ship had landed on the station's plat. "We need to get the hell out of here now though." She shrugged off the jacket she'd been wearing, leaving her bare-armed in the vest, before slipping the black robe over her shoulders. "Come on."

Without waiting for Carth to follow, she broke into a dead run.

XXX

 _Fear. Fear. Fear. Rage. Hate._ Mere words, but they sang like a dirge in Bastila's mind. There was a strength in them, a power, as if the invocation of forbidden emotions was enough to summon their energies. The potency of a thousand rakghouls surged through her veins and channeled back to her horde a hundredfold in an endless loop.

Exquisite. Battle Meditation had never felt like this. Long ago, a visiting master had told Bastila to imagine the control of armies as points of light on a grid: now all of those points had flared to red, and every one of them was moving in unison under her command—

At some point, the fragile body she had almost forgotten began walking again, feet moving, one after the other. In a blind direction— _Bastila Shan_ was blind. But she... she had a thousand eyes, and all of them were mad. She was claw and teeth and pestilence, she was Polla Organa, cowering at a ship in the sky, she was one with the Force like her fallen Master Trask. She was everything, she was all, she was One—

"What the—" A voice. Voice in the void. Oddly prosaic.

"Is she bit? Looks like a goner."

"I don't see a mark on her."

"You don't see much—look at the eyes. Nobody's home."

One of her thousand claws found purchase in Sith skin, and she smiled. _One of us._

 _My death in that ship. We need to get the hell off this plat. We need to get away from the sky—we need to run—_ her feet pounded down a duracrete path, jumped over a railing, half-flew down a flight of stairs, almost stumbling-

Another of her had wrestled a chunk from the female's arm. The Dark Jedi fought like demons, the tunnel around them was stacked with meters of their dead, but they would soon tire, and _she_ had so many—so many more—

The Two would be a strong addition to the herd.

She stopped running, panting, glancing behind where there were no monsters, no teeth, no death from the sky-only a worried pilot speeding after her with shadows in his eyes-

_No! No! I'm Polla Organa. I'm a Deralian smuggler. I'll be fine. I just need to be fine._

She tore the throat out of one of her wounded companions and lunged at the man with the red blade whose teeth were bared as much as hers-

_No! No! I'm not! I'm not going crazy! What the frack was-what the frack was in those derms?_

Revan's wild thoughts swamped the rest, shattering Bastila's concentration like dropped ferracrystal-splintering her awareness back to one body.

And in that moment, Bastila saw her surroundings: some kind of access point, more branching tunnels, and—

And two Humans, both with shock sticks, staring at her as if she was a wrapped gift on a Seventhday Talravinian morning.

"Lookit, Froda," one said to the other. "She's stopped glowing."

"Whazzat mean?" asked the other.

"Stay back," Bastila warned them, raising her hand. "I'm warning you—"

The two Humans laughed. "Okay."

And then their companion shoved something hard in her back, and all of her muscles spasmed; frozen long enough that all she could do was watch helplessly as a Gamorrean punched his trank gun into her stomach.

Pointed teeth scratched her ear as Gamorrean arms closed around her body, lifting her up in the air before she could fall.

"I think this one's a real Jedi, guys!" her captor grunted.

"I think you're right, Honta!" one of the others said.

Darkness spiraled, and Bastila knew no more.

Xxx

"Stop!" Carth was winded, but Polla Organa went another fifteen meters before she turned her head and noticed he'd stopped behind.

"Oh." She ran back, moving easily even in the flapping, ridiculous robe. Her cheeks were pink with exertion, and the tip of her nose. "I'm sorry, I… something was… it was dark, but it's… it's better now. It's… gone."

"You're pretty fast for someone who just got out of a coma," he muttered. They had attracted quite an audience, but no one seemed to be approaching. Maybe those black robes really worked.

XXX

His command shuttle touched down on the Taris platform, and Malak waved the door open before the seals were even clear. The planet resolved itself in a hiss of steam and gravity: gray duracrete, the squat security building, a few, groveling guards—

—s _omething._

Something flickered, like a spot on the edge of his vision and then vanished. He strode down the gangplank and through the wide-open doors of the local police. The reception area was empty, the guard's desk deserted. The smell of death was everywhere in the TarSec hall and Malak's comm was beeping.

"One moment." Malak held up a hand, trying not to show his disdain, while his guard hastily scurried back, like the insects they were, leaving him alone in the suddenly-empty reception room.

It was Sheris on the comm.

" **You commanded me to return, My Lord?"** Her image resolved, wearing three scraps of fabric, with her hair braided in elaborate loops. **"But you came to the planet?"**

"I will return soon. There is a small matter I must attend to first."

"Oh." The pout on her face was false and he hated her for it, suddenly and vividly.

His phantom jaw throbbed with pain. **"I must go now."** He needed to say nothing at all, but some courtesy remained. Like the dreams from a boy who danced at a Coruscanti ball, imagining an infinite peace.

_And my peace is close. Closer than ever, once I have my prize—_

Outside the sealed door, he heard voices.

"Let me through! I need to speak with him!" That voice, intruding. He knew it. _Bandon._

Murmured objections from his men, then the sound of a lightsaber igniting—

"I have to go, Sheris." He kept his words gentle for her.

" **Is it her?"**

"What?"

Outside, a garbled scream. _I will have no honor guard left, if I do not intervene—_

Malak raised his hand and flexed his gloved fingers. He could not _see_ Bandon, but the boy's throat was suddenly in his hand, feet dangling a meter from the ground: choking, gasping, the Force struggling back like the heart of a dark star—

 _So strong and so useless._ He moved his hand back and the body slammed into the wall. The door between them was nothing. He held the boy's life in his hand, exhilarating in it—

Sheris was still talking. **"... is nothing. We were padawans together, you know. You cannot trust a fallen Jedi—not that one, not really—I hope you don't think I am speaking out of turn, my Lord, but she—"**

_But she—_

For a moment, his wife's face swam before him, replacing the copy. Red had worn her hair like that before the wars. Sheris must have copied the style as she copied so much else.

"Bastila. You're speaking of Bastila." Of course. Beya had… Beya had once teased them, him and Red both for being so unaware, oblivious to the normal games that lovers played. But for years there had been no reason to learn them: no subterfuge, no jealousy, no division...

_And it made us weak._

" **You… did you find Bastila?"** That false hope, the lie, bright as her hair. He wanted to bury his face in it.

"No." He took another breath, hissing through the voder. _Bastila is nothing compared to you. Merely a tool to be harnessed to the Forge. But you, Sheris. You, who are precious to me beyond measure… beyond your ability to comprehend… I cannot have you complacent._

_I need you strong._

"I will tear this planet apart if I have to," he vowed. It was not a lie, tearing apart planets was pleasurable—almost as much as the cream of her skin, the smell of her hair. "We need Bastila Shan for the war. And I… I need her too." If Malak had a mouth, he would have smiled.

Sheris bowed her braided head. **"Yes, my Lord."**

XXX

"Act natural," Polla Organa said, as they approached the Sith checkpoint.

Time or distance seemed to have restored Polla's former swagger. Between the hat on his head, and the goggles, Carth felt half-blind. Half-blind and half crazy, but he was starting to agree with her—at least as far as getting nowhere without getting back down. They stuck out like rontos here.

"Come on," she moved half-turned, walking backwards again, eyes on him.

"We were going to wait—"

They'd _agreed_ to wait, steal uniforms or something from a blasted Sith party; but this damnable woman was heading straight towards the checkpoint now, as unerring as a torpedo locked on its target.

"My Da always says, you don't know how bad something is until you try it." She shrugged. "We need to test their defenses, right?"

 _Keep your voice down,_ was what Carth wanted to say, but there was no time.

Two armored Sith stood in front of an elevator door. One had his blaster out, holding it casually. The other held some kind of scanner.

"No admittance to the Lower City without authorization," the one with the datapad said. "And I need you to turn around, Citizen. Immedia—"

Polla turned to face him. "Yeah, yeah." She held her hands up, the black robe hanging open. She'd pushed the goggles up again too, even after he told her not to. "Hold your hessi, okay?"

_And this is when we get shot and arrested. Or arrested and then shot. Two grunts like us, what will it matter?_

Carth stayed very still, well aware of the centimeters separating his blaster from his hand. Polla's hand had slipped back into the pocket of her loose trousers. Carth had been trying to figure out what she'd stashed in there and he thought he'd gotten it. _The stun stick. If she thinks we can overpower these guys with that surveillance camera—elevator will have codes and we don't know them—_

Her face was a pale oval, in the reflection of the guards' armor. Twinned. She looked like she was staring at herself, mouth slightly open, the animation draining out of her face—

 _Oh, no. Not now!_ Without thinking, Carth rushed forward—not even expecting to make it before he was shot, his pistol out, bringing it to bear—

But the guards… the guards were frozen too.

One of them made a small noise, a little gasp, magnified by his mic. "Oh," he said.

"Crap," the other echoed.

Before Carth could react, they stepped to the side, elevator door opening.

"My name is Polla Organa," Polla Organa was muttering. She said something else too, in one of her languages, fast and under her breath. And then, "I am a Deralian. I just need to go to the Lower City, okay? With my… my friend here. This Sith… officer. Him." She turned, and the naked fear on her face made Carth think they were all going to die, except—

Almost as one, the guards saluted him and let them go.

She grabbed his arm, half-dragging him inside. The doors closed behind them.

"What was that?" Carth demanded. "What the hell was _that?"_

"You military all look alike." Her face didn't match the ease of her voice through. No, now she was staring at herself in the mirrored reflection of the lift, tugging at her top knot. "I bet if we get you a jacket and some regulation pants, we could rob a bank."

"Rob a… bank?" The fear in his gut was turning. _Are you playing me? Is this all some kind of game?_ "You rob a lot of banks, sister? Huh?"

"Never had to before now." She glanced at him. "You?"

"Not really my thing. Anyway, credits aren't the problem, remember? You already robbed some Sith in that bar, or… or whatever you did to get those credits."

"Whatever I did?" Her small chin lifted. "What did _you_ do, Republic?"

"Saved your life," he snapped. "Changed your damn diaper for a week while you were unconscious. Listened to you scream in Mandalorian. Who _are you?"_

Her face flushed. "I'm Poll—"

The elevator doors opened. The air down here was strange. Smelled like there'd been a fire since they'd left. Something round and small rolled into the lift.

Carth was already reacting, grabbing the smuggler's arm, over her astonished squawk and pulling her _out._ Out fast. Something red whizzed above their heads, and he had his own gun up and out, firing back before his mind caught up.

_Find cover._

There was a stack of crates a meter to their left. He grabbed the smuggler again, dragging her behind, shielding her, ducking, laying down a returning blast. Something whizzed by his ear—too close, and he realized that somehow, she'd pulled out that damned ion rifle and was firing it up.

A smoking hole appeared in the ceiling above their heads.

_Was that her?_

"Aim at _them,"_ he suggested. "Not the ceiling."

She fired again. There were three of their attackers visible to the left, and Carth winged one in the next volley. Polla's shots were all wild, but at least it helped, she was a good distraction, laying down suppressing fire—

"Stop!" she yelled at them, just when Carth was starting to think he could trust her to do the right thing. She stood up, and he had to tackle her back down, rolling on top of her and the damn rifle.

"Don't move," he hissed. "They mean business."

"Why are sents trying to kill us?" Polla's voice was younger than her face. Her face had freckles. He hadn't noticed them before, a dusting across the bridge of her nose. Carth had a sudden, senseless urge to kiss her.

_Maybe she's not the only one losing their mind._

Her brows knit together, and those green eyes widened. Flecks of yellow in them too. He'd never noticed. A fine line of red at the roots of her hair. Made him remember how he'd learned she dyed it, and he felt his face flush.

"Flyboy—"

An explosion, faint but muffled. _The grenade in the elevator. Guess we're not getting back that way._

More shots winged overhead from the opposite direction. Her green eyes followed them.

"It's not us," she murmured. "Crossfire. There's someone—"

Another volley. Shouts. Running feet. Running closer—

Carth risked a glance over the crates. The fighters were little more than kids—two Rodian kids wearing what looked like gang colors—same a galaxy over, some things—and now engaged in close combat with each other. One had a vibroblade and the other some kind of pike. More blaster fire, more shouting from the left—and then another barrage of fire from the right and both melee kids took off at a dead run straight down the middle corridor.

_Together? That doesn't even make sense._

"Swoop gangs." Gurney had said something about that—the first medix Carth had gotten to take a look at Polla. His Ithorian buddy had said more. "They control a lot of turf down here. Looks like we're in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Great." Polla smiled slightly, eyes still locked to his. "When they finish killing each other, we can ask whoever's left to introduce us to Holdan—"

"No." Two points of fire, two points of cover… but straight ahead of them, the hall was clear—the way those sword fighters had gone. "On my mark, you break and run, understand? Straight ahead. As fast as you did before. I'll be right behind."

He expected an objection or another round of senseless hysterics, but she only nodded. "Okay."

"Don't stop til you hit the wall's curve." All the walls down here curved, the legs of the platforms above, hollowed for occupancy. "I'll be right behind."

Green eyes searched his face and she nodded again.

"You got it?"

"Aye, aye." Another round blasted over their heads. He watched her head tilt up, her eyes tracking the movements, sharp, almost birdlike. "I got this. Just follow my lead."

"That's not—" Later, he realized he knew. He knew immediately what she was going to do—or what she wasn't. But Carth didn't have time to say more because she was already gone, crazy black robe and all, running… towards the left-hand corridor. _Not_ the center like he'd said.

Blaster shots sparked wildly in her wake, stippling the ceiling and the walls.

 _Nine hells!_ Carth was on his feet and following her before he could come up with any other plan.

XXX

_The right-hand side is automated. A turret of some kind. Triggered by blasts, or proximity. Stay away, don't shoot at it, and it's not gonna plug you in the back._

Her shoulders itched all the same, even though Polla was positive she was right.

The left-hand corridor was occupied by two more kids: a Duros boy and a Twi'lek girl. They had a stack of grenades and a couple of cheap-looking carbines propped behind some blaster-poxed barriers that looked military grade. _Salvage or scavenge. Probably left over from the Mandalorian invasion—_

"Ho!" the Duros kid scrambled to his feet.

_Red eyes. His eyes are—_

Her blaster shot intended for his skull went wild, glancing off the wall instead. "Hey!" the girl squawked, leveling a wicked-looking vibroblade at Polla. "Don't come any closer, Creep."

_Red eyes. Red eyes are bad. He's a kid. I almost shot a kid—_

" _What_ the hell was that? I gave you orders!" Carth. Behind her

_Hells, Carth!_

"I don't take orders," Polla muttered. She'd dropped the rifle back behind, found herself brandishing the shock stick in her left hand, the blaster in her right.

_It's wrong, but I—I always shoot with my right._

_I almost killed that kid!_

"What is this?" Carth interrupted. "A game? With live ammunition?"

"Yeah?" The girl was blue and skinny, shorter than Polla, but she didn't back down. "You the one who got Lonny? Nice shot. He ran like a scalded manka!"

"Is he… he's a kid like you? Is he okay?"

Sort of cute how Flyboy worried about children who were trying to kill them.

"He'll be fine! We got plenty of kolto."

"When I was your age, we used to steal booze and race our bikes," Polla offered. "Kids are dumb."

The Duros smiled, like he agreed and she repressed a shudder. _Red eyes. Not his fault, just losing my mind._

The Twi'lek beamed at her. "Right? Blame the Vulkars for leaving their turret up. We'll find a way around, one of these days."

"If you don't get shot by the Sith," the pilot muttered. "How… how old are you?"

"Fourteen. Taris, anyway." The girl glanced at her companion "Digba's seventeen. He don't talk much though, since the Imps killed his family. You're dressed like Imps, but you ain't them. Can't kid a kidder. Get lost. This is Beks turf!"

"You're nuts," Polla told her. "I almost…." _I could have killed them._

"Almost what?" the girl asked. "Shot us? No offense, but you _suck._ You _almost_ missed the frelling wall."

"I'm sorry," Polla said. "Now, scram—wait. You know Holdan?"

"Holdan the sleemo? You his new girlfriend? Sith wanna-be girlfriend?"

"I just need to do a deal with him is all." Kid was a brat, but Polla respected that. _Kids are dumb, but this one's kinda not._

"Gross. He'd be at Javyar's Cantina, down the west wall. He's pretty much always there since he pissed off that girlfriend of his. Dia. I think he's scared to leave. Davik's gonna flotz when he figures it out."

"Uh huh."

"How'd you know we're not Imps?" Carth interrupted.

"Imps are better shots," the Twi'lek said. "I mean… your girlfriend here looks pretty evil in black, but I had an action figure with that hair when I was a kid: white robes and Mercy Corps and everything." She shrugged. "Mercy Corps were huge on Taris. You know em?"

 _Mercy Core?_ The name meant nothing to Polla.

"You're still a kid," Polla told her. "Don't they have school on this fracking planet?"

"Not down this far. Where are you from, you don't know…?"

The Duros nudged her, shaking his head.

"We gotta go," the Twi'lek added fast. "Good luck with Holdan, okay?"

She turned and ran, leaving the grenades behind, bending down deftly halfway down the corridor to retrieve something. Polla realized just as the two kids vanished from sight that the little twerp had taken her ion rifle from where she'd dropped it.

"Son of a Bith!" She started to go charging after, but Carth's arm on her shoulder claimed down like a vise.

"Let them go," he muttered. "That kid is right. You're a terrible shot."

"Good thing, I guess." She would have protested, if it hadn't meant being good would mean those two might be dead. "I wasn't before. Maybe the head injury messed with my depth perception—"

Carth was packing the grenades in the pockets of his jacket with the air of someone who knew how not to blow themselves up.

"I gave you an order," he added coldly. "And you disobeyed."

"You're not my… you're not—I don't follow your orders. I said so." Weird, maybe it was the adrenaline, but Polla felt more clear-headed than she had since she'd woken up. Since she could… since she could remember.

_What do I remember? What do I—don't fracking ruin it. Breathe._

She exhaled. Carth was glaring.

"Come on," she said sweetly. "Let's find Javyar's. Buy you a drink?"

Xxx

"It looks like someone took a chunk out of your arm, Beya." Davad stretched, every nerve alive and singing. Something about… the hunt, the beasts, it was one of the few things that still made him feel alive. He wiped the hilt of his saber on his robes, as the Deralian woman ripped hers for a make-shift bandage.

"I wouldn't get too cocky." She glanced up at him. They were surrounded by dead rakghouls. Nearly walled-in, truth be told. "Your leg is bleeding, Arkan. Did you think you cut it on a rusty pipe?"

"I—" he looked down, and saw the claw marks, four of them, in a perfect line. "Ah. I see."

Beya shouldn't be smiling at his misfortune, but she was. Quite impudently. She raised an eyebrow at him. "How long do we… you said it's random, how long the transformation takes?"

"I did, yes." Davad tried to match her tone. "But the Taris governor installed sensors to scan for rakghoul infection on the elevators and they don't have a 'please let these Sith live' setting. Unless you would enjoy _climbing_ our way back to the surface we need to find one of our own patrols and get the serum from them."

"That's… a shame." She frowned. "You know, before the end… those beasts almost seemed…."

"Sentient?"

"I was going to say organized, but yes."

Davad closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses again. The spark that was Shan was… gone. Extinguished entirely. "Well, some good news: I think the Republic has quite lost its hope. Forever."

"Good." Beya wiped her forehead with a hand covered in ichor because he could caution her.

 _I suppose we're already infected,_ he told himself. _I suppose if she transforms first, I will have the pleasure of another kill before I transform into a mindless killing machine._

"You're the tracker," she added. "Sense any patrols close by?"

"No." He exhaled, extending his senses—

And then his comm beeped, three times, long tones.

"Oh, look," Beya purred. "Lord Malak. Maybe he will save us!"

"Ha hah." Davad snorted and answered, because they had no choice. If no response was made on this channel, the comm was triggered to explode in fifteen seconds.

Malak had used the visual override instead of his comm's standard text protocol, meaning he wanted everyone in visual range to know it was him, or he just didn't care. His override included a two-way feed, and they both watched the Dark Lord's narrowed eyes take in their disheveled appearances the piles of rakghouls, and their obviously underground location.

" **Bandon says you betrayed me, Arkan."**

Funny how much expression was in a mouth. One never noticed until an old friend lost his.

"Bandon secured Shan without a neural band and she escaped. Lord Beya and I were merely trying to retrieve her. For you."

Davad's eyes dared Beya to contradict him, but she was silent, watching.

" **And where is Shan now?"**

"We came upon her beset by rakghouls," Beya said tonelessly. "We gave pursuit, but the beasts turned on us. Davad can't sense Shan now. We assume she perished with the rakghouls."

" **A pity, if true."** Malak's voder gave no hint of his opinion. **"And my wife?"**

"What?" Davad cursed his response a millisecond too late. _I should have said nothing._ Across from him, Beya's eyes were wide and blank. "I-I haven't seen—she… may not have survived the escape from the _Spire._ And in any event, she—you… you said she was irrelevant. A shell—"

" **To me she is."** Malak's hairless skull turned, his eyes growing larger in the holocam's view. **"But to you, Arkan. I cannot help but wonder… what remains? I ordered you… ordered you** _ **both**_ **to remain in orbit with our fleet. And yet… I find you both trapped underground. In a sewer."** One eyebrow raised. **"You both presume rather heavily on the closeness of our acquaintance. Lesser Sith have been executed for much less."**

 _Lesser Sith are mindless drones. You need us more than we need you._ "Do you doubt my loyalty? I was the one who _gave_ you the codes to Shan's ship."

" **I know. I wonder at your motive. You knew Revan was on that ship—and how did you know?"**

"My shadows, My Lord. As you know. The Blades live to serve you." _As long as you're doing what the old woman wants._

"My Lord," Beya interrupted. "We… require some of the rakghoul serum. I hate to trouble you with such a minor matter—"

" **Then, why are you?"**

_Oh, Beya. He's not stupid. Madder than the rest of us, but not stupid! Don't bring it up! We can solve this ourselves!_

"As courtesy," she bit out. "Send us a Sith patrol with serum."

" **Find my wife,"** Malak taunted. **"First."**

The comm cut out.

"You know he's recalling every patrol with rakghoul serum from on at least half the planet right now?" Davad poked the slashes in his leg experimentally. The skin felt strangely… numb. That couldn't be good.

"You wanted to find her anyway," Beya murmured. "Now, you have an excuse."

"I can't sense her. It's like looking for a speck of dust on an egg."

"Your savage metaphors are incomprehensible." Beya sighed. "I can find her. Quite easily. But you will do something for _me_ in return."

"Your intelligence network...?" Could he kill her and take it over himself? Before transforming into a rakghoul? It might be interesting to try.

Beya nodded. "They're keeping close watch on her location." She glanced at her wrist. "I receive updates."

"Then why not just tell Malak—?"

Beya Organa blinked at him, her heart-shaped face as closed and quiet as an egg itself.

 _Ah._ And then he knew.

"You do so many things for a girl who offers so little return."

"Leave _her_ out of this." Beya's voice was even. "And think upon the one obstacle in _both_ of our paths."

He didn't need to think long.

_Malak D'Reev. Dark Lord of the Sith. The lover of your pet. The husband of my lover. Master of the Star Forge. The Butcher of Telos and so many worlds since. Dear old Mal, our former friend._

"What you propose is… easier proposed than executed." What she proposed was insane. One thing when the old woman... but the old woman was always lying. _Really t_ _ake out Malak? And then what?_

_And yet—and yet—the Star Forge had infinite capabilities. Who was to say it couldn't restore a Dark Lord's cracked mind? And if Davad could heal her, and then lay the galaxy at her feet—for her—_

He glanced at Beya again, who was watching him with narrowed eyes.

 _With Revan at my side,_ you _would finally pay for your part in her destruction, Beya Organa._

Malak had indeed executed many for much less.

"I propose nothing." Her voice was grim, and Davad knew she had her own plots—perhaps, even this was another one of her traps. And yet— "I act. We are Sith."

"Does _Sheris_ know? Does she know what you risk for her? Are you two even—"

"Given the state of Revan's mind at present…" Beya made a show of checking her comm again. "I place my own odds of finding personal... fulfillment... rather higher than yours."

XXX

_And seeing the hunger sated—for perhaps the first time in his life since he'd abandoned his drexl and his crown to follow the path of the Jett'ai… was like hearing the end to a poem Davad had been trying to end all of his life. Sate a hunger that had never left: one that food, drink, sex, or fighting had never touched._

_He'd been taught all of his life that the Force was in all living things; but now he knew: the Force_ was _life. And, maybe ever since Malachor, he had been starving for it, starving to fill himself with something, after all of that death._

XXX

A/N Annie Lennox, Love Song For A Vampire

Thanks, Ether, for advice and beta! A thousand screaming rakghoul(s) worth.

Thanks to everyone who's ever written a Taris intro, because this is influenced by them all.

Next up, I swear it: with Bastila unconscious, Polla Organa should become a lot more coherent.


	5. Before the World Fell At Our Feet

_Mission….The first kid you let yourself love after Dustil. Hell, the first sent you trusted after Saul's betrayal. You trusted Mission before Polla. In fact, if Mission hadn't been so easy with Polla first, would you have ever trusted Polla enough to fall for her?_

— _Carth Onasi, Memory, Chapter 37_

Xxx

**Oblivion / Chapter 5 / Before the World Fell at Our Feet**

Xx

Jayvar's Cantina was about what Carth had expected. Darker and dingier than the places in the Upper City. More scum. Less Sith military.

In fact, it had no Sith military (at least in uniform) at all—not if you discounted the woman dressed like one next to him at the bar.

"Much better than the Upper City," murmured Polla Organa. "See?"

"Maybe lose the hat." Carth was trying not to notice the number of eyes on them.

Polla had taken the hat back, whistling as she did so when they were still walking own the hall. She'd tied the black robes around her waist. Now they almost looked like some kind of skirt.

"You don't find me _terribly_ intimidating?" She narrowed her eyes at him, drawing the corners of her lips down. "I'm a Sith captain!" Her voice deepened, developed an arctic chill. "You will follow my command. Or die, sir."

The Devaronian bartender took half a step back, but then advanced, producing a bottle of something neither of them had asked for and put it on the bar with two glasses, before backing away.

"See?" Polla smirked. "Free drinks." She picked up the bottle and frowned, lifting her eyes to the bartender.

He stepped back again.

"Just get us some beer?" Polla called to him. "Okay?"

"It's a lieutenant's hat," Carth told her. "Not a captain's."

The bartender was speaking to someone at the other end of the bar now—one of the Calamari groups, although with the sent's rebreather on it was hard to get a read on an expression; but he stopped immediately. In another moment, they had a new bottle on the table.

"How do you know Sith hat types?" Polla picked up the bottle and looked at it, before making a face and putting it back down. "Were you in the Sith?"

"No! No! Of course not. And it's not… you're not _in_ the Sith. You join. Join the Sith. Some… a lot of Republic officers… they use the same insignia. It… it doesn't matter, anyway."

"Right." She frowned and poured him a drink. "I think this is some kind of ale? Ale _is_ beer? Better than that crappy ice wine they keep bringing us?"

"Tarisian ale." Their fingers brushed when she handed him the glass. "Careful. It's supposed to be strong. Humor me, okay? Lose the hat."

"You're kind of cute when you're boring," Polla Organa drawled, but she took it off as he'd asked, shoving it into the side pocket of the battered vest she was still wearing. That thing looked like it had been through a war, but it showed off her smoothly muscled arms. She had freckles there too, he noticed, and a thin, fading scar on her left arm, nearly down to her wrist.

"What'd you do?" Carth pointed, indicating it. "Get into a knife fight with the wrong Besalisk?"

"What?" She'd already turned away again, was frowning now thoughtfully, at a couple of pazaak players over in the corner.

"Get stuck slumming it?"

A voice. Male. Carth turned and discovered a tall, green Rodian had parked himself next to them at the bar.

"We're not stuck," he replied warily.

"You sure? Whole quarter just went on lockdown. Sealed it up and down. Nobody's getting out."

"Why… why would they do that?"

He felt more than saw her leave. Polla Organa, once again wandering off.

"Something about those Republic escape pods? Maybe another plague outbreak? Or rakghouls? Who knows." The Rodian shrugged. "That's why we drink, right?"

Carth had already turned his head away, watching her ease across the room, lean in and ask one of the card players something. Whatever their response was, it made Polla Organa smile. Watching her jabber away at them gave him a chance to watch her, every movement graceful, even with the robe flapping around her waist.

 _Could she be a Republic agent? SIS? Could this crazy act be just an act?_ Watching her now, he saw no trace of the woman who had been babbling about the sky and danger less than an hour ago.

"Rakghouls?" He turned back to the Rodian. "We heard about them, but I thought they didn't leave the planet's surface."

"Well, they _can_ climb." The Rodian chuckled. "Who knows, right? This was a nice planet back when. Now…" he made a whistling noise of disgust. "Now it's all gone to hell."

"Yeah." Carth took a sip of ale, and looked over again.

Polla Organa had vanished.

 _Hope she's not mugging someone in the fresher,_ he thought. _Again._

Xxx

_This is more like it._

Back of Jayvar's was a womprat warren of private rooms, storage lockers, and two dining rooms that looked more full of contraband and card games than actual diners. A Duros gatekeeper took one look at Polla and waved her through a security checkpoint, no questions asked, (which was good, because she didn't want to see his red fracking eyes).

The back room where all the deals went down had a stage, a bar, a number of Twi'lek and Neimodian dancers shifting on and off the stage, and a Hutt holding court in one corner.

Funny, she'd thought Davik Kang was Human.

["What can I get you, beautiful?"] The bartender in here was Ithorian, and beautiful was only a rough translation of the word he meant, which was more like 'planet-bright.'

His words, transcribed in Basic Aurebesh, scrolled across his forehead a millisecond later, but Polla was already answering him.

["Republic hovercar bomb, rocks, selz chase-down."]

The bartender gave a grunt that could have been surprise, but filled the order.

"I know a lot of languages," Polla bragged in Basic. "What do I have to do to get a meeting with the big guy? Holdan said he'd introduce me, but…."

["Holdan is standing there."] The bartender pointed, not at the guy in armor next to the Hutt like she'd expected, but at a weedy Human glomming onto a joygirl by the stage like he was payday. He wasn't bad-looking, actually; although the black eye probably meant trouble.

"Oh." Polla nodded, asking a few more questions. Turned out that Dax the Hutt only _worked_ for Davik. He was some kind of bounty bondsman—sents on Taris seemed pretty bad at paying their debts. Davik wasn't _here,_ or anything so convenient. Davik didn't come to places like this. And the whole sector was on lockdown. Something about a plague—

" _There you are!"_ Looking flushed and irritated, her Republic sidekick burst into the room. "Polla, what are you—"

"Cool jets." She nodded to the bartender. ["Get him one of what I'm having."] She drained her own drink. "I gotta see a man about a job."

Carth was still sputtering when she walked away.

XXX

"Hey! You gotta pay the elevator tax before you go in there! It costs two hundr—"

The rest of the beggar's objections to Beya and Davad's approach were lost to the sound of the man losing his breath, the snap of his neck. His body dropped to the ground.

His co-extortionist screamed and ran away.

The remaining population of this wretched refugee settlement seemed to be (rather more wisely) in hiding. Davad and Beya had broken the gates of the compound and strode through unaccosted, although Beya had noted a few cowering eyes watching, sensed the fear of trapped sentients within the cheap plimfoam huts.

 _I was here before._ The thought had come as they walked, a useless whisper.

XXX

_The Mercy Corps set up a medical clinic near the front lines of the fighting. They'd expected it to be used by the Tarisian forces, such as they were—but instead they'd be inundated with children. Mines were a problem, of course, and injuries from sabotage (Tarisian mines, Tarisian sabotage—not Mandalorian). The Mandalorians seemed to prefer tests of their pathetic weapons against the might of the Jedi—_

_Beya had not thought so then, of course. It was only later when she'd learned the truth of the galaxy that the Mandalorian assault began to make sense. Over the years, she had even developed a respect for them._

_But it had mostly been children back then in their care. And they had not been victims of Mandalorian violence._

_No, they had been starving. By the look of them, most had been starving for a very long time—_

XXX

Davad dropped a stack of credit chips onto the man's cooling corpse.

Beya sighed, trying not to roll her eyes. "If you leave credits, they're all going to want credits. And you overpaid. That was more than two hundred."

The Onderonite ignored her. "I will triple that," he called out to the empty plaza. "For a vial of rakghoul serum. We've noted your raids on our patrols. I commend your initiative! But surely, there are those among you who would like to do more—"

"You should ask for two, at least." Beya checked her wrist comm again. _Finally! Reception._ She began tapping in commands to bring _two_ vials down to the sublevels.

Almost immediately, Dia pinged back, confirming her supply. All of Beya's agents carried the serum on Taris. It was only a matter of time, according to her own calculations, before the mutated hellspawn broke through the barriers and invaded the world above.

"Made your own arrangements, Lady Organa?" Davad's teeth were bared. "Did you think to include me in them?"

_Of course. I need you, Arkan. For now._

**Confirmed sighting: Jayvar's cantina**. **En route now,** her agent sent back.

Beya frowned, thinking.

 **Capture and contain,** she sent back. **On my way.**

She would have to lose Arkan first, find some distraction… perhaps tell him that dear Rev was visiting one of the swoop gang bases….

"How long have we been friends, Davad?"

"Is that what we were?" His scarred eyebrow rose, and suddenly, all humor faded from his expression. "That friendship died above Deralian skies, Beya. It died when you sided with Malak over _her._ "

"Before that. Our alliance ended with _Malachor."_ Beya knew she was taunting the terentatek. It was not wise, but neither was the man's obsession with the walking dead. "Remember. I was _chosen_ to be saved—you merely survived the gravity well's implosion."

And how strange it had been, seeing his return—seeing such blind loyalty to a woman who had sentenced him to death.

"Was that how it was?" His tongue licked his lips and then he pulled them into a feral smile. "Watching a world die was… transformative. And—we saw power on Malachor. Power far beyond anything—"

"We?" Beya scoffed. "Are you counting your own men you slaughtered before your ship even docked at Rekkiad? Or, do you mean Surik?" She paused, watching him closely. "Surik was on the _other_ ship—she went straight to Coruscant."

The elevator dinged open. They both stepped inside. The doors closed behind them and the lift started to rise.

"Meetra left. On Revan's orders." His voice was soft. "I remember. How high can we travel before the bioscanners begin?" _Changing the subject?_

"It depends," she leaned against the back wall. "The locals constantly sabotage all the automated fail-safes. Some think it's just a matter of time before the rakghouls break free—"

Lights flashed in the lift, bathing them both in a blue haze, which abruptly shifted to red. Then, an alarm rang, and the elevator shot back down again all the way to the floor. The doors dinged open again, with a hiss of steam.

"Blast," Beya muttered. "I suppose I will have to get Dia to meet us down here with the serum now."

"Do you think these wretched paupers have anything decent to eat?" Davad's voice was developing a plaintive whine. "I'm starving."

XXX

From the leer on his face, her man Holdan looked to be just as much of a sleemo as that Twi'lek kid had said.

"You Holdan?" Polla gave the man a lazy smile, even if she wasn't feeling it. What she was feeling suddenly was nausea, and a throbbing headache, as if the republic hovercar bomb she'd just knocked back had been a bad idea.

Maybe it had been. It had tasted off.

"And who are you who wants to know?" He looked her up and down and then up again, gaze lingering on her chest.

The two Twi'leks faded into the background. One of them shot Polla a look she couldn't quite read.

"Name's Polla Organa. I'm a registered smuggler, out of—"

"If you want me to get your ship in the air, forget it. I don't have any pull with the Sith!" His sleazy grin faded, but he looked at her again. "Course, if you're interested in some dancing, I might be able to do something…." Man gave her the up and down. He wasn't bad looking, for an Exchange thug. Lotta them tended to run to fat—as if hanging out with Gamorreans made them want to eat like Gamorreans.

"Me." Polla pointed at herself. "Registered smuggler. Polla Organa. I'm looking for work."

"Registered," he scoffed. "Outlier colonies, huh?"

"Deralia."

"And a woman. Sure, I could see Davik being into you… but he's a hard man to see. You need an introduction."

"Yes." She could almost feel Carth glaring blaster bolts at her. "That or I need to do something to grab his attention, like shoot a goreapple off some coreslime thug's head."

"Spicy," Holdan muttered. He wouldn't be bad-looking, almost her type, if it wasn't for the shiner over one eye, the swollen lip that looked chewed by a thresher. Guy had a limp too, was leaning hard on the bar, one leg packed in kolto. "How about you do something for me, then I'll do something for you?"

"Maybe," she allowed. "What you got in mind?"

"My ex." He shrugged. "Schutta tried to kill me. I put a bounty out on her… dead or alive… but if you can bring her in alive and… say, contained? I'll make an introduction to Kang for you."

Polla snorted. "Do I look like a girlfriend collector?"

"You look like you got your own muscle there, by the door." The thug nodded at Carth. "Make him work for whatever it is you're dealing… and I'll make a deal for you."

"I'm a smuggler not a bounty hunter." _Asshole._ "I'm probably the best smuggler this side of the Rim. In the right ship, I could run that Sith blockade. You tell Davik. I could run it in my fracking sleep."

Her gut twisted, and the taste of the drink in her mouth made her want to puke all over this loser. _It tasted off. I love hovercars. They don't know how to make them in this fracking craphole—_

"Sorry, kid." The loser's face had an ugly smirk, even with the swollen lip. He took another step forward. "Davik's already got the best flyers in the system. But he's always on the lookout for… other kinds of talent. How are you at massage?"

"Massage? No," she seethed. _"You_ tell Davik I'm a good pilot. Or… tell me where to find him myself."

"Hey, now, don't be like that, babe—" he reached out his hand put it squarely on her waist, as if they were about to dance—

It was instinct that made her grab his wrist, twisting it high above his back. Da always said, don't let sents get fresh; but was it instinct that made her grab him—and it had to be instinct that suddenly had her shock stick out of her pocket and shoved hard into his sternum—and somehow in their toss-up, Holdan had landed on the floor and Polla was looking down from above—

" _Don't_ touch me!" The world was suddenly clear and cold. She was kneeling above him, holding the shock stick at the point where his ribs met his guts. _Pathetic. Fool._

"Polla!" To his credit, Flyboy was on them almost instantly. Even had that sweet Aratech out, aiming it at the asshole.

Aiming it at Holdan, but yelling at her.

"What the hell's going on?" Captain Carth Onasi hissed. "Who is this? What are you—?"

"This is Holdan. Guy who was supposed to get us a Davik intro? Well, he's fracking useless." She felt her lips curl with disgust, pulling the shock stick back without activating it, straightening to a stand. "I bet he doesn't even know Davik."

On the floor Holdan didn't argue differently, maybe because he was still trying to catch his breath after the toe of her boot had connected with his guts. He made a harsh, wheezing sound, rolling over, and scrambling at his belt.

_His belt. His blaster is at his belt. He's going to shoot—_

A bolt whizzed about her head—or—she wasn't where it had been, conscious mind catching up, finding herself a few centimeters to the left, staring at the smoking hole in the ceiling—

 _He shot above my head? He shot at me and_ missed? _Does he have_ _ossik for brains?_

"Asshole! Can't even shoot straight!"

Her foot kicked out and knocked the blaster from his hand—or, at least, it seemed like that had happened, because now it was her boot _stepping on his throat and bitter mirth bubbled in her gut and she might have laughed, and he was nothing, nothing at all—_

" _Polla!"_ Arms tackled her from behind. Captain Carth Onasi tackled her and pulled her off. "Stop!" He was yelling in her ear, whispering in it too. "We're trying not to draw attention. Don't be insane—"

"What?" Polla didn't wait for an answer. Carth's grasp was hesitant, and she was already breaking free, scrambling across the floor for Holdan's blaster, grabbing it herself, noting the cell charge, and shoving into the waist pocket of her vest—

Her conscious mind caught up again, looking up at Carth and then down at the man gasping on the ground.

"What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about?" His eyes were wild, he'd holstered his own gun again, but she saw how close his hand was to it, the way he was looking at her. "You just—"

On the floor Holdan made a choking noise. His nose was bleeding. He held up a hand defensively. "Guhg—"

_You nearly crushed his windpipe. It will have to be restored for him to speak._

Her eyes went up to the new hole in the ceiling, still smoking, and then back to Carth. "Good thing this asshole is such a lousy shot," she offered. Everything felt… strangely flat, like it wasn't real.

_He was a lousy shot. Man, I dodged a bolt there. Literally. It's okay. My name is Polla Organa, and Da always said, you can't dodge a blaster so make sure they don't shoot first—_

She felt her breath go out in a sharp exhale. Suddenly, she just wanted to puke.

_He did shoot first. He did, but he missed._

"Yeah…." Carth Onasi had a furrowed look in his eyebrows. She'd seen it before on him. Not a bad look. Almost soothing.

_Trust him. Kind of sweet the way he charged in there. Trying to save you?_

_Or stop you. You almost killed that guy. You wanted—you wanted to kill him, it's a good thing Carth was there. It's a good thing Holdan's such a lousy shot—_

"Relax." Polla forced her breathing to calm, took a few steps back, angling her distance to the door, sussing up Carth's expression, and suddenly aware, also, of their audience: the dancers, the bartenders, the Hutt holding court in the back of the room—

"Hey, anyone got any kolto?" she asked, still trying to smile, to keep an even keel. _It's over._ "Anyone? Guy over here has a crushed windpipe."

"Hmmm," rumbled a deep voice at the back of the room. "Chuba da mi ersa. Gii." _Well done, Human. Small Human. Special._

["He needs kolto, I think,"] Polla repeated in Huttese. ["Can any of your servants offer assistance?"]

The Hutt waved a flipper and one man advanced. He was Zeltron, pink skin set on permanent blush.

"That was flash," the man told her, using Standard. "Truly an exceptional bit of fighting."

No one seemed particularly upset that she had almost killed the guy, so Polla tried to relax a little more.

_I did, I almost killed him. For a sec, I thought I was gonna kill him. I was gonna kill him and he'd be gone—_

_He shot at me._

"Let's get out of here," Carth hissed in her ear. He took her arm, and then almost immediately dropped it, taking a step back, as if he were afraid of her now too.

"Relax, Flyboy," she lied, not feeling relaxed at all. She wanted him to take her arm again. Get them the frack out of here suddenly. Suddenly, the walls above seemed too close like everything was pressing in.

"Relax, Flyboy," she repeated, and took another step back, standing next to Carth now, reaching for his hand. He looked startled when her fingers brushed his, but his grip was warm and strong, like a tether back to ground. "Relax," she repeated numbly. "I've… I've got this."

"It's okay," he mumbled, looking down at her. Odd light in his eyes—or the room. "I thought you were a goner when he pulled out that gun—"

"Yeah." She took a deep breath and let it out again. "Me too."

["You seem quite skilled, Small Human. Would you like a job?"] From across the room, the Hutt's words crackled over the speaker, loud as a grenade.

"No, she wouldn't!" Carth practically growled at the Hutt—proving he wasn't a total wet envirosuit. _He understands Huttese._ _Not something you pick up in Republic Army charm school._

"Let's get out of here." He squeezed her hand. "Trust me, don't mess with Hutts."

"Maybe _you_ don't. My line of work? They're a fact of life."

["Is this your master, Small Human? Does he speak for you?"]

Polla dropped Carth's hand and crossed the cavernous floor, standing before the Hutt. "No one speaks for me. What about you? You a free agent? Or do you belong to Davik Kang?"

One of the Neimodians hanging off the stage gave a nervous giggle.

"Ho! Ho! Ho!" The Hutt was young, almost thin for a Hutt. _Lean and hungry—for a Hutt._

She glanced back. The Zeltron was putting a kolto pack on Holdan. Carth was still standing back where she'd left him, frown deepening again on his face.

["I am Dax,"] the Hutt continued. ["Would you like a job, Female Human?"]

"She's got one," Carth yelled out.

"What's the job?" Polla Organa smiled. _Never say no to a Hutt. Everything's negotiable._

Xxx

From the top of Monument Park, the rest of Coruscant was a dizzying, ever-shifting haze of color and light. The pollution from its atmosphere created bands of color, striping the skies with gold and green and red. There'd been an ice crema vendor, one in a line of vendors once, years ago, selling concessions when it had been open to the public. Gone now, and the boat rental stands on the artificial lake were closed and shuttered dark.

He liked to come here for his morning constitutional. On a few occasions, she'd joined him. He could still hear the sharpness in her voice on their last walk. The accusation, the righteousness of the young.

XXX

" _We wouldn't be here if you'd helped. You said you'd take our case before the Council. You said you could convince them—"_

" _I said I would try. But you have to remember. We fought the Mandalorians before. You don't understand the risks—"_

" _They're not risks for me." Her voice was flat, but he knew her. The confidence now was as much of a mask as the real mask she'd shown him, made of cloth and gray, like the ones they all used to wear_ in the war.

" _You can't fight them alone."_

" _I won't be alone." Her resolve sang in the Force. "Malak. Beya. Davad. Vikor. They've all agreed to come. High Admiral Dodonna agreed to take us. One Jedi in each ship. All we're going to do is scout for cloaked ships. But once the Fleet authority sees what Jedi can do—"_

_How do you argue with conviction? Exar had been charismatic too, swaying so many with his vision of a new Jedi Order, where power was harnessed to cause—where they helped—enacting positive change on a galactic scale—_

_At least Revan was no ideologue. His niece wanted to stop an invasion, not start a rebellion._

_At least she was not her father. Radik had never found peace in the Force, had possessed too much raw ability to ever learn prudence._

_At least she was not her uncle. Vrook himself had chosen distance over attachment… only to realize it was as much of a lie as his niece's composed expression as she stood next to him, arms folded in her sleeves, watching the Coruscanti dawn._

" _When do you leave?"_

" _In a few hours." Her head ducked, and he understood that too. "Uncle, I have to… I have to take my leave now, but I—"_

She waited to tell me until it was too late to be stopped. Radik had done that too.

" _Go." He nodded. He did not approve, but he understood._

" _Will you…?" She started to walk backward along the lakeshore, already leaving him. "If we don't come back—"_

" _As much as I am allowed," he called out after her. "You know that legally, I have no grounds—"_

" _We'll be back!" she promised. Her voice rang across the lake, echoing. "We'll be back soon, I promise—"_

_Soon had never come. If she had returned to Coruscant after that, it had not been for him._

XXX

"Master Kae said I would find you here." A voice interrupted Vrook's thoughts, startling him.

Master Jopheena emerged from the shadows, snapping off the controls of her stealth belt. The smug smile on her lips told him how much she'd been amused by his discomfiture. Jopheena had a childish streak—mischievous. Perhaps that was why she had been assigned the calmest padawans, although she had rejected all candidates, these last five years—still mourning Malak D'Reev, the one lost.

"A revised casualty list from the _Endar Spire_ arrived this morning." Jopheena handed Vrook the datapad.

"Through the Senator again? Are we _sure_ he isn't involved?"

"His information is always accurate."

"Because it's what Malak _wants_ us to know." Revan had not played games with the Jedi after her betrayal. Her assault had been cold and precise as a game of dejarik—or Mandalorian chess-it had been logical. Malak's war was anything but.

Vrook looked down at the list, noting the list of the fallen Jedi had grown longer. Next to each name, a holoimage. He'd made the mistake of enlarging a few before. They were always from when the Jedi were alive, but in some cases, it was evident that death was not far away.

**_J_ ** **_aik Sensa, Padawan. Irlissa Day, Padawan, Ir'luk Hirlota, Jedi Knight, Siskamee, Padawan—_ **

"He's weeding them out. Testing them, with those infernal Sith games."

"There's another page," Jopheena said.

Vrook turned and his breath caught.

**_Bastila Shan, Padawan._ **

**_Revan Starfire, Jedi Knight._ **

The holoimages were larger, large enough he could not look away. There was Bastila, behind the shimmer of what looked like a distortion field.

And there was his neice—or, at least her body—staring blankly into space. They'd dyed her hair black and shaved the sides of her head, but it was Revan. _Or her body._ He could read no expression in her eyes, but he had seen the reports from the _Ascendant._ He'd seen all her medical records before they went over his head to the Senator with them.

Of all the ironies, that old man controlling her fate in the end.

The woman his niece had been would not have stood for that.

"That's it, then." Vrook was suddenly very tired. "You know what we must do."

_Enter this war ourselves. Even if it costs us the Order. Our sanity. All we have gained back after Exar—_

"If I were Vandar or Vash, I'd try and come up with an optimistic platitude," Jopheena said. "Now I just hope he's lying. This could be some kind of trick. One of his games—"

"Malak never lied." His voice felt too tight for his throat. _Malak never lied. For all that he was a Senator's son._ Jopheena's padawan had been staid and serious, as serious as Vrook's own. The two of them, so well-matched that the Order allowed their marriage, preferring to try and contain what it would never be able to control. _We learned that from Exar too._ He did not look at Jopheena. _Contain this. We have to control this—_

"Thank you for showing me before the main Council meeting." He turned to the lake again. The sunrise was peaceful at least.

"Malak never lied _before,"_ Jopheena said. "But he has changed."

_Xxx_

It was quieter in the front section of the cantina. Main stage was empty. Easier to think.

"I said… you're welcome?" Polla Organa's head tilted, eyes practically glittering with glee. She slouched against the wall lazily. as if beating up the thug in the back room had been all in a day's work. "By the way… despite what you seem to think, I do have standards." She paused. "Ethics. There's banthacrap I would never do."

 _Unbelievable._ Carth was rapidly losing patience, rapidly losing ground. He wasn't sure what their objective was anymore. If Bastila was already in the hands of the Sith—

_Should I get myself captured and try to break her out?_

_What if I can't? I know too much. Sith interrogation techniques are… horrible. They say the Sith can do terrible things—I've_ seen _terrible things—the things they've done—_

_XXX_

_The monitor beeped softly. Morgana Onasi could have been sleeping, if he hadn't seen what lay under the packs of bacta and blankets, seen the medcharts, been told her chances by at least six, sad doctors. Her ship had crashed, they'd said. She'd been flying routine patrol when the shields went down, but it was the injuries she'd suffered after—at_ their _hands—_

_Morgana Onasi wasn't going to wake up. Not this morning. Not ever._

" _Carth." A voice behind him._

_When he turned his head, he saw his own expression looking back on Rew Ekkumi's face. Blank. Shellshocked._

_Their entire world was gone—not just the radioactive hellscape down there on the surface. Their_ entire _world. At least Carth still had Morgana (today at least he still had her today). Rew didn't even have that._

_But Rew smiled. Sad, a little grim. "We knew what these bastards could do when they were on our side—"_

_XXX_

_I've seen what the Sith can do._

None of the plans Carth could make now seemed to make any sense. No more than this made sense, trying to drag Polla Organa _out_ of a Lower City bar before she got them seen.

"Look, sister. I'm not going to thank you for not becoming a bounty hunter!"

"You're the soldier. Maybe _you_ should—"

"Are you nuts? Wait—don't answer that!"

Her lips twisted, but she didn't take the bait. "You heard what Dax said about his buddy Ajuur and duels? A duel might not be a bad way to get the Exchange guy's attention—"

"You don't think almost killing his henchman was enough?"

The smuggler had been fast when she took down Holdan. Faster than he'd expected. Carth had barely blinked and that sleazebag of a thug had been on the ground, with Polla's boot on his neck.

 _Takes training, knocking a man down that fast. Real training._ Holdan wasn't big, but he had at least fifteen kilos on Polla. And yet… she had knocked him over like he was made of plimsi.

Then the man had missed shooting her—had missed shooting her at point-blank range.

"Deralia must be a rough place."

"Sure, if you're a kissra lambie." Those green eyes rolled at him. "We had this conversation already? Where are you from again? You still haven't said."

"Forget it!" What was the point of talking about a world that no longer existed?

"Whatever, Captain Obvious." She walked towards the bar like she owned it, and the Devaronian was already handing her another drink.

Carth looked past her towards the bar's entrance. The air was better in this part of the cantina. It didn't stink like Hutt here. Collaborating slug larva that they were. It was Huttese trade routes that had opened their gates to the Sith invaders. Huttese worlds first, who hadn't fallen but just opened their stinking legs—

_Hutts don't have legs. Watch it, Onasi. You're losing it._

XXX

_Looking at Rew was like a punch in the gut, so he stopped looking at her. Their kids had grown up together. Their families had—_

" _Did... did they tell you about the school?" He stood up because it didn't seem right, saying it in front of Morgana. "I don't want to upset her. We should… we should go to the hall—"_

" _They told me. A direct hit." Maybe it was because her husband was dead that Rew didn't care._

" _Not in front of her." He shook his head. "Please—"_

_Rew's eyes flickered towards the body of his wife, and then back to his face. "We'll get them," she said quietly. "Those Jedi and all the men with them. We'll get them—"_

XXX

"Hey, sleemo! Beat it! I told you to leave me alone, so give me some space!"

Carth was still trying not to think about Telos when a high-pitched voice to their left broke his concentration.

The speaker was young, indignant, and sounded—almost familiar. Carth turned his head.

The little blue delinquent who'd shot at them earlier was now yelling at two Rodians. The Rodians were dressed entirely in red. Easy to know what _that_ meant. Gang colors were the same the galaxy over.

 _That kid's too young to be running with gangs._ He frowned.

["Repeat the message again,"] one of them chirped in Huttese. ["Hanging out in bars, maybe little girl isn't so smart. She might have it wrong."]

"That's my ion rifle." Polla put her drink down on a nearby table, starting forward.

Carth grabbed her arm halfway there and pulled her back. "Hang on, sis. Not so fast."

Her eyes went down to his hand, and then back up at to his face. The smile on her mouth was almost cruel. "Oh, this isn't fast, Flyboy."

"Pretty fast, that stunt you pulled back in there with that Holdan character. You could've—"

"After I tell Gadon about how your mom sucks eggs for the Exchange, I'll tell him about your stupid swoop race! Jeez!" The Twi'lek in front of them put her fingers to her mouth and whistled sharply.

["Little girl stupid to think Rodians come from eggs—"]

A roar interrupted all of this as a Wookiee emerged from what looked like one of the public freshers.

 _A real live Wookiee._ Carth had seen quite a bit in his thirty-eight years, but he'd never expected to see a Wookiee. At least, not in an underground bar.

_Edean, where we're supposed to be now is their homeworld. The Endar Spire was headed to their homeworld. What are the odds there just happens to be a Wookiee here—?_

"Yeah, Big Z. They don't trust me with their stoopid message." The girl raised her voice. "Hey, maybe you Vulkar pricks want Zaalbar to tell Gadon about your swoop contest and the captured Republic terrorists 'stead of me? Thing is, Big Z here, he don't talk Basic so well. He'd have to rip the lips off your face and bring them along to do the talkin...?"

_What did she say about Republic terrorists?_

["Easy, little blue. Lukas was just yanking your chains."] The taller of the two pulled out a credchip and tossed it to the kid. She caught it and palmed it all in one go. ["You tell Gadon for us. You tell him good. We—"]

"Swoop race?" The madwoman next to Carth yanked out of his grasp and butted in. "What swoop race?" Polla Organa was one hell of an actress—or insane. Because she really sounded like that was what mattered here. "You know, I was tweener champion on the swoops back home?" She smiled. "Maybe this planet's not a total waste of my time."

"Bug off, Humie—oh!" The Twi'lek kid looked startled, stepping back. "Hey! It's you!"

"Me," Polla agreed, nodding. "And I'll be taking that rifle back now."

"No way! Scavenger's rights! It's mine!" The kid had it slung over her back. All wrong. Looked like the safety was on, which was good.

The Rodians' clicked something in their own language, too quick for Carth to catch.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll tell Gadon." The Twi'lek rolled her eyes again. "You know the Sith are offering a huge reward for any Republic prisoners right? Why don't you think the Beks won't just crash your base and _take_ the kriffing prisoners?"

"How-how many prisoners?" Probably wasn't the safest move, asking questions like that in a place like this, but—

["Four,"] the Rodian told him in Huttese. ["Winning gang can turn them in with Sith and collect reward."]

 _Oh yeah? Then why doesn't your gang just turn them in?_ And then Carth realized. "You have to know that the Sith won't pay. They'll probably just kill whoever—"

Polla snorted and the Rodian who'd been speaking, the taller one with blackish-green scales, swiveled his antenna and curled his lips nearly back into his head. His sharp chirps were laughter, Carth realized, echoed by the low rumble from the Wookiee that could have been mirth too—or just a growl.

_They all know, Onasi. Rules in the rough haven't changed that much in the last twenty-five years. Same, no matter where you are. Here, it's the Vulkars and the Beks. Back home we had the Slammers and the Skyjam—_

"Loosh here don't make the rules," the Twi'lek girl said. "We got our ways of dealing with the Sith. You're not from around here, are you?"

"What was your first clue?" Polla drawled. "Didn't we have this conversation already, you gun-stealing brat?"

Her words were harsh, but her tone wasn't.

The little blue Twi'lek grinned, and pulled the rifle from her back, and to Carth's surprise, handed it back. "You want me to show you how to use it sometime, Grandma?"

"Grandma?" Polla laughed, as she slung the thing over her shoulder. "Oh, kid. It's on."

"Name the time and place." The girl giggled. "I'm Mission, by the way. Mission Vao. And this here big guy is Zaalbar. We run with the Hidden Beks."

"That's one of the swoop gangs? Bartender was telling me about them. I'm Polla Organa." Carth couldn't help but notice Polla Organa had a beautiful smile. He'd noticed it early. He was noticing it again now.

 _Smile of the damned,_ he thought. _If she can smile like that in a place like this, she's either crazy, or she has nothing to fear—_

"Uh-oh. Trouble—" hissed the other Rodian, jerking his antennae towards the door. His companion turned too—and squeaked an alarm.

Carth didn't see anything strange about the crew coming in the door—not at first. They looked a lot like the rest of the pack of motley mercs.

Except for the woman leading the pack. She was Human, wearing civs, like the rest; but as they drew closer, the way she moved, the way her hair was slicked back, even the creases along the seams of her clothes—so pressed they looked plated—he could see that every centimeter of her lean body screamed military.

_Not Republic military. Not here._

Good pilots, good shooters have a sense of danger. Carth was having one now. "Don't do anything," he hissed at Polla, because that was all there was time to say.

Xxx

"Dia says they're still at Jayvar's Cantina. Our girl _and_ her Republic escort." Beya snapped her fingers sharply at Old Wrinkle-Skin to bring more caff, while Davad gloomily munched on a tasteless ration bar.

"Can we assume this was the Jedi's cunning plan? Give our Revvie the personality of a drunk to keep her biddable?"

 _Jayvar's Cantina._ Davad had never heard of it. But he hadn't wallowed in this much fetid life in a long time either. Beya was the one planetside, with her networks of nulls, her spies in the crimeworlds of a hundred planets. Davad preferred to see their empire's expansion from the abstract refuge of space and his own fleet.

His leg was numb now to the thigh, which seemed like a bad sign. So far, none of the villagers had remarked upon their injuries, but Davad sensed they all had fled too—to the opposite end of the compound. _Herded in like nerf._

A few of them were visible though, making hasty repairs to the gate he and Beya had cut through with their sabers. He watched them struggle with the scavenged rebars and pondered the futility of their miserable existences.

For some reason, his mouth watered. Was that a bad sign?

"I told Dia to come here with the rakghoul serum as soon as she secured our friend," Beya added.

"Secured?"

"Don't worry, she won't hurt a hair on her head." Beya's voice was careless—he didn't trust it at all.

_An alliance with you would be useful, Beya Organa. But I have resources far beyond your imaginings—and if you dare cross me—_

Still, he wondered. _Could I end Malak?_ The old woman wouldn't like it, but she wasn't here. If it were done quickly, would it not consolidate their position faster?

Xxx

Some jerk with a bunch of muscle interrupted her reacquisition of the ion rifle and learning about the swoops, much to Polla's annoyance.

"Polla Organa?" Woman looked a little twitchy. So did the mercs behind her. Two were Human, wearing battered body armor, with crap for arms; the other two, the 'Doshan and the Chiss, looked like more trouble. She didn't like the look of the gun at the Chiss's belt. _Systech disruptor, with a power C cell. That thing'd dissolve a fifteen-point trawler like it was mud. Probably take down a terentatek with it, if you—_

 _Terentatek—_ the word was funny, and when she blinked, Polla had no fracking idea what it was.

 _Claws,_ her mind supplied unhelpfully. _Poison. The ichor from the joints between makes an effective poison._

The Chiss couldn't keep his eyes off her. Polla glowered back. Fracking Chiss with damned red eyes.

_His eyes are red. Red. Lots of sents have red eyes, they change color—eyes… eyes do that._

Someone had said that. Someone had said—

"Excuse me… Polla Organa?" the woman repeated. _Again._

The Chiss couldn't keep his eyes off her. His eyes were red. _Red is bad. It's bad. Eyes can change color but that color's bad—_

"Nope!" Polla said. "But I get that a lot. Whoever Polla Organa is, she must look a lot like me. I'm Desiderata D'Cainen. This is my husband Therion, and our kid, Bluebell. She's adopted—"

"I am not a kid!" Mission interrupted.

"Kids." Polla flashed the room a smile and shrugged.

"Maybe you should meet us back at the apartment, Bluebell." Captain Obvious didn't sound happy, but at least he was trying to play along.

"And leave you to deal with Dia Shakell? Her boyfriend's coreslime, sure. But she's a Sith collab—"

Click of weapons, four of them, all now aimed at the Twi'lek kid.

_Fracking hell!_

Polla's gut sank, all the way to her toes.

"There's no need for that." Next to her, Carth's voice had softened, but it had an edge she understood. "We're all just having a conversation."

"A conversation," Polla repeated. "That's right. Leave the k—leave Bluebell out of it."

Behind them, the Wookiee growled softly. ["Mission, this is not our fight. Get behind me. Now.]"

["Good advice,"] Polla muttered, in Shyriiwook. ["Listen to your friend, cub."]

"I'm not—whoa!" The kid paused. "You can understand Big Z? Ain't nobody on Taris who can do that!"

"I'm not from Taris." Polla shrugged. "It's a wide and wonderful galaxy out there. I know a lot of languages." _I know a lot of languages. I know a lot of languages. I know Huttese, Rodian, Ryl. I know… I know Shry—shryiiwhatsit._

 _Shyriiwook,_ her mind echoed. _Spoken on Kashyyyk, by the native race. Wookiees. Trandoshans have been hunting them for centuries and selling them into slavery. They are hard to break, but once broken make excellent—_

_The frack? Where the frack did I read that?_

"Listen to my offer," the woman said. "If it displeases you…"

"Your name is Dia?" Polla interrupted, forcing her thoughts back on topic. _The hell with Wookiees._ "Hey! You have an ex named Holdan?"

The woman's composure shattered. She went three shades paler, took a step back. "Are you… you can hear my thoughts?"

"What?" Maybe dating a scumbucket like Holdan had driven her nuts. "No, I ran into him. You know he has a bounty out on your head?"

"He does?" Dia gave a choked laugh. "Oh! He will regret that very soon."

"Think he already does." The mercs had relaxed their weapons, Polla noted. The Rodians had scarpered at the first edge of trouble. And Mission had put three meters of Wookiee between her and the guns. _Good._ "Guess you won't be upset then… After I turned him down, I kinda crashed his larynx. Just a little. Dax says he'll be okay, just not very talkative for a few weeks."

"Y-you crushed…." So much for the kinship of womankind. Dia looked pale again.

"He wanted me to hunt you down," Polla added, but Dia was staring at her comm unit and tracing symbols on it furiously.

Behind her, the four mercs looked utterly confused.

Xxx

" _How_ are you tracking Revvie?" Davad asked Beya again. It was a point the man had repeatedly questioned, and Beya was getting tired of dissembling.

"Engineered isotopes in her drinks. Flushes through her system in about twenty-four hours, but they're easy enough to replace."

"So. Your network of bartenders has finally amounted to something of use." His tone was acid, but she thought he was secretly impressed.

 _More useful than your shadow blades._ "You know me, I quite like bars." Beya stretched her hands over her head, easing the tension from her body and yawned.

"Perhaps when this is all over, you can open one," he deadpanned.

"And perhaps then you may settle down on a farm on Deralia with your biddable Deralian wife. Reports say our mindwiped shell keeps mentioning Deralia to everyone she meets. Kind of like a trained monkey-lizard."

"Engineered isotopes…." His yellow eyes narrowed. "You could poison her so easily."

"Really, I could poison _anyone_ so easily." Beya chuckled. "Of course, we Sith Lords are harder to kill."

"But Revan wouldn't be. Not like this." Davad frowned, lines grooving deep in the gray-brown of his skin. He'd been so pretty once, too. Almost as pretty as Rev herself. They would have made a _lovely_ couple, had Malak never existed. He sneered appropriately, but Beya didn't buy it. "She's helpless."

"I know." Beya yawned. "Sad, isn't it?" She kicked out her legs, propping them on the body of that beggar man, and took a sip from the bulb of water the villagers had been thoughtful enough to provide while they waited for their caff to be prepared properly.

As if her thought had summoned him, the latest attempt appeared from around the edge of the platform's base, doddering and filthy, but carrying a shining silver tray.

"I am Rukil," their new server announced. The other two still lay where Davad had fried them; against a wall, their offending offerings scattered to the wind. The villagers had learned something since, because Rukil was ancient, and worthless. His hands trembled as he offered them what was clearly the only decent bulb of caff left in this wretched sewer. Beya had to admit, it smelled delicious. "Wrinkle-skin, the children call me. This day has been long foretol—"

Davad's hand twitched and their server choked on his words. The tray containing their caff shook dangerously but did not drop.

"Don't kill Old Wrinkle-Skin," she murmured. "He promised cakes before. Remember?"

Davad's hand opened slightly and the man gasped for breath, stumbling back.

"They are… they are but humble things. We—we do not have many supplies down here..."

"Go," the Onderonite snapped. "Fetch the cakes."

The man set the tray down and fled.

"This place," Beya said with disgust. "Hasn't changed a bit in five years."

Xxx

_Deralia had poor sents, sure. Sometimes crops failed. Sometimes the bank or the insurance took more than its due._

_And sometimes your traitorous family blamed you for a bad harvest, then made you go off for Jedi training, and then disowned you when you grew up believing in a cause._

_A cause… or a person._

_Did Mandalorians have their own universities? Their own research laboratories? The Mandalorians weren't the ones attacking the University of Taris, even through the campus was in their occupied territory._

_But they didn't seem to mind letting it burn._

_Beya Organa was here because she'd believed in their cause—and in her friends. But it was fast becoming clear that part of her job involved defending the weak who were rich from the even weaker (but more numerous) refugees in the Lower City._

_Revan said there was something valuable in these research laboratories: a cure for a mutative plague, the fabled Rakghoul Curse. And they needed that now because the Mandalorian troops had infiltrated the lower levels and found things buried there better left dead._

_Rumor was, the Mandalorians were using fear of the rakghouls for recruiting down there—using fear of the plague to fill their ranks. That seemed smart of them, morally bankrupt assholes that they were._

They offer the Lower City denizens weapons and safety. We offer them a place in line for a refugee camp. Which would my family take, if this was us?

_One of the Republic Admirals—she didn't know which—had had the bright idea of putting their main ground supply line in the middle of one of the refugee camps._

_And that's when they had learned that although Mandalorians didn't target civilians, they also didn't give a frack—_

_Beya's face was sweating under the blasted mask, but she kept it on. The mask was great for not showing expression. It wasn't very Jedi-like that what she felt right now, when faced with evacuating an entire research lab of scientists who didn't want to go, was irritation—coupled with a natural sympathy for the poor slobs from the Undercity who seemed dead-set on burning down the place._

_Still, she stood at the entrance to the transport, blue saber a beacon for the scientists to follow through the smoke. There were already a few basilisk dropships on the ground; but the Mandalorians seemed to be holding back._ Why? _It made no sense. This was a fortified position. She had expected a fight._

_A part of her… might have enjoyed one._

_A_ slippery slope. _The reminder was automatic now, although it had been years since she'd had a master to remind her._ Knowing when to step away is just as important as knowing when to hold the line.

" _Bey!" Revan appeared in the transport's doorway, mask pushed up, streaks of what could have been dirt—or blood—on her hands and face. She'd picked up a Mandalorian cape somewhere, and it billowed out behind her. She looked ridiculous. She looked like a damned general, probably already hatching some scheme to save an art museum next—or another orphanage. "You made it!"_

" _Force, tell me you brought a real pilot." Beya smiled under her mask. "I didn't save all these people to have you crash the transport."_

" _Davad's flying." Her friend's mouth quirked, accepting the insult. "Is this all of them? Did you get the samples?"_

" _We salvaged two labs, and I don't know. These are who's left. The rioters are burning everything."_

_In the abstract, Beya didn't blame the angry mob. She'd seen how the Humans in this ecumenopolis treated the other races, the conditions they were forced to live in underground. Even Coruscant was better than this—at least there was the possibility of working your way out from the Coruscanti Underground there; getting lucky, finding help. And the Tarisians believed in inheritable offenses. She'd met families in the Lower City stuck down there for for their great-grandparent's crimes._

_Even these scientists were second-class citizens because they weren't Human._

_["We have a copy of the serum, Master Revan."] One of the Ithorians—Suun, Beya thought or Firtusk—had come up behind them and stopped. His fellow scientists continued up the ramp and into the troop carrier._

_["I am not a master, you should not honor me with such a great title. I am a humble seeker, like yourself."] Her friend's Ithorian was as flawless as everything else she did._

_Beya couldn't even hate Revvie: you can't hate the sun, you need it to live._

" _You can call me, Master Beya," she joked. "I don't give a hessi's ass—"_

_XXX_

"Did you manage to poison this caff?" Davad interrupted her rememberings, still eyeing his cup.

"What would be the point?" Beya shrugged. "You're already going to turn into a ghoul."

"Speaking of that... where is your agent with our cure?"

"I don't know." Beya looked over towards the half-repaired gate, beyond which stretched a blasted plain and the sewer entrance they had recently exited. "I hoped that the pathetic healer and her two companions I sent to search for lost Sith patrols might return with a vial or two as well."

"That healer was Force Sensitive, I thought." Davad licked his lips, and finally took a sip of caff. "Kind of a waste, sending her out there to die."

"Not strong enough for Sith." Beya shrugged. "But maybe the Force will guide her."

"If she returns, I'll take her."

"Sure. I sometimes wonder what you do with all of your weaklings—"

Her comm beeped and she glanced down, frowning at what she read. It was a lie she'd just told: Beya knew exactly what he did with them. _That pathetic shadow army._ Still, they were very effective against Jed.

"Dia says our girl denies being Polla Organa and is using the Force," Beya announced to him. Dia's message was brief and seemed panicked, but it was too comical not to share.

Davad gave a sharp laugh. "Then how is your spy still alive?"

"Because she's not stupid." The woman had passed all of her screenings with flying colors.

"Revan would hardly stand there and let her comm you—"

Their eyes met. "Unless it's a trap," Beya finished. "One for us."

"That seems unlikely," Davad said. "Considering we're in one now."

Her shoulder felt numb where the rakghoul's teeth had bit.

XXX

"We're gonna go," Carth said. "It's been… interesting."

"You Sith maybe have some jobs?" Polla asked. "I'm an ace pilot."

The woman looked as gobsmacked as Carth felt. "Are you _toying_ with me?"

"Yeah…?" Polla tilted her head. "Maybe I need to ask somebody else." She grabbed Bluebell's hand, keeping the Twi'lek behind her, and away from the weapons. Carth couldn't decide anymore if she was brave, crazy, or just trying to act like it for his benefit. (Or for the Sith?)

It was bad, he realized when you still weren't sure what side your partner was actually on.

"You coming, Flyboy?" Her voice was easy enough, but there was a tension riding in it too. Did she care? Did he?

"He just said he was." The kid's eyes were wide and trusting. A kid like her shouldn't be in a place like this.

The thugs and their leader were just standing there, the woman staring at her comm again. Carth didn't like the look of that Chiss and that gun.

_Who the hell brings a Systech disruptor to a bar?_

_That woman on the comm, she's taking orders._

"Yeah." Carth had a bad feeling. Hells, he had a whole mess of them, all playing havoc in his gut and chest. The Wookiee had already shuffled off with Polla and the kid— _Mission. Mission Vao._ Carth noted the Wookiee had his bulk in between the kid and potential blaster play too. Made him feel a little better.

"Wait!" The woman—Dia—called out. "My-my _master_ wants to meet with you."

"You date assholes like Holdan _and_ you have a master?" Polla Organa shook her head. "Unless your _master's_ Davik Kang or some other Exchange joyboy with a fast ship, I'm not interested."

" _Please._ She will punish me. I know this all a game to you, but the stake is my life." Dia's aristocratic tones seemed to have turned desperate. She took several steps forward. Behind her, more worryingly, her mercs had their weapons raised again. Carth stared down the red light of an auto-recharge, uncannily aware that it was locked on him.

"Don't. Move," the Chiss added silkily.

Polla froze, her voice pitching low into a series of sharp growls.

The Wookiee whined softly, and Carth caught a glimpse of Mission Vao's face peering back through the fur of his elbow.

"I'm gonna turn around, okay?" The smuggler's voice was careless, breezy. Carth was starting to think when her voice got that breezy was when he should _start_ worrying.

"Drop your weapon first."

Dia seemed to have recovered a great deal of her composure. Carth watched her hand trace a few symbols on her comm. Her other hand was hidden from his view, but he'd bet anything it held a blaster.

"This old thing?" Polla laughed carelessly and pulled the salvaged blaster from her boot, slipped the ion rifle off her shoulder. Her hands dropped both on the floor. "Right. I get it. Anything else, your Highness?"

"Get the collar," Dia hissed at one of the mercs. _"And_ the neural band."

It was one of the Humans who turned his head. "I thought you said she didn't have the F—"

Polla growled again. Something about the noise made the hair stand up on Carth's neck.

And then everything happened at once.

Xxx

"Here are… the cakes." The old man set down an elaborately carved tray in front of them, stacked with several round, grayish biscuits. Davad felt his lip curl with disgust.

 _Those are ration bars. Republic issue. Left over from the_ last _time we were here? How long ago was that? Five years?_

_It feels like fifty._

"Where did you find those, old man?" Beya actually sounded interested.

"My pupil… she had been… she searches the Outside for the Promised Land. Do you know the legend of our Promised Land?"

"In fact, I do." Beya smiled.

"Typical. Every subjugated culture has its legends of a promised land." Davad took a bite of the tasteless disc and choked it down to ease the gnawing in his gut.

The Beast-riders of his native Onderon had been exiled to the Wilds. Although the city folk of Iziz had romanticized their existence beyond any point of reason, Grandmother's tales had been quite clear: generations had lived and died dreaming of a better world before one was actually made.

_They should have just taken their better world like my people did. Like my grandparents, Oron and Galia._

He smiled at the old fool standing before them now, currying favor like a desperate kath. "Rise up against your oppressors. _Take_ your Promised Land back, instead of begging for it."

"Difficult to do, when the bioscanner stops them from rising above this level." Beya's voice was acid. Her eyes had been dark blue once, but now they seemed a bilious black.

"Only the infected ones can't leave," Davad shrugged. "And they die anyway. During the wars, I quite remember that the others rose up and—"

"The others don't make it past the automated turrets they have set up for everyone without idchips _now_ ," she said. "I've studied this world, Beast-Lord. Unlike _some."_

_Studied the world, but not the rakghoul plague. Or were you feigning ignorance of it before?_

For all Davad knew, Beya had the antidote already, had taken the antidote already, and was just waiting for him to change before she killed him.

"We could disable the bioscanner…." He would do it himself if he knew how.

Beya scoffed. "If it were that simple…. Dia will be here soon."

Xxx

The Human stepped forward, holding something silver in his hand. Looked like a necklace. He had sidled behind Polla, circling back. Carth already had his blaster out—the split second where you have to make the call had come and gone.

' _Doshan first. He's the toughest. He's the one you don't want to meet this close-range—_

But then the Trandoshan vanished, lost in a howl of pure rage, and three meters of brown fur, as the Wookiee… basically jumped him.

As if they'd planned it, (and later, Carth realized they had, realized that Polla Organa and Zaalbar and Mission had said _something_ to set this up with their series of growls), Mission rolled across the floor, behind him, upending a table and ducking behind it for cover.

A blur of gray armor whizzed in front of Carth and then the man holding the necklace was on the floor about four meters behind where he'd been; groaning, and clutching his guts.

The other Human was down too, and Carth hadn't even seen it happen. From the angle of his neck, he wouldn't be getting up.

A hot line of pain scored Carth's arm and he met the red eyes of the Chiss, the whine of the man's blaster. Carth fired back, keeping it steady and the Chiss collapsed. The part of his mind that kept score, noted Polla, now kneeling over the woman— _the Sith._ She had the stun stick pressed into the woman's ribs, and her hand around the woman's throat.

Another whine of blaster fire, and a kid's gleeful cry. "Got one!"

Carth turned his head to see the bartender slumped over the bar, hold-out pistol falling from his suddenly limp hands.

The Wookiee growled something and turned to look at Carth. His teeth were bloody. The Trandoshan wasn't moving.

"Geez, Big Z! Yeah, it's still on stun! But that means old hammer-head there is gonna wake up sometime. Sure you're ready for that?"

_The other one._

Carth turned back towards the merc that Polla had… somehow thrown backward. _Kicked?_ His own blaster wasn't on stun. The merc was staggering to get up again.

 _Down you go,_ he thought blackly, and fired.

The man collapsed.

He looked up, watching for more. _Bartender was in on it? Was this all a trap?_

"Why did you try to kill us?" Polla's voice cracked. Her hand jabbed the shock stick into the woman's ribs again. Dia's body arced as the charge hit. "Why? Why the frack did you try and kill us?"

"Sounds like you guys need to lay low," Mission said, voice almost cheerful now. "Pissing off the Vulkars is bad enough, but you guys took out a Sith patrol! They get pretty mad… Governor Macis is an _asshole."_

They seemed to have emptied the room, but Carth still felt exposed. Too many exits. Not enough cover. The bar looked like it was made of ferraglass—or one of its cheaper cousins. Wouldn't hold up under a rain of blaster fire.

"What the frack was that?" The smuggler's voice rose in near hysterics. "Why'd you try and kill us?"

She shoved the stun stick harder. The woman's body twitched, but her face… mouth half-open, eyes rolled back….

"She's not going to answer, Polla. She's dead." His voice felt dead too.

"Dead?" Polla turned and looked at him. Her eyes were wide and shocked. "How can she be dead?"

The Wookiee wiped his mouth on his furry arm and groaned something.

"No! It's a stun stick! Like we use on the farm! For kissra and hessi! I didn't—there's no way I could have _killed—anyone._ I don't… I never—"

"Wow, did you break that guy's _neck?"_ The Twi'lek leaned over the Human merc's corpse—the one who had died before Carth even registered they were up the slipstream in hell. "Can you show me how to do that?"

"I didn't." Polla shook her head sharply. "I didn't fracking do it."

"You _told_ us to be ready for anything," the girl insisted. "In Shyriiwook, right before."

"I meant… I meant… stun them. Like you did. I was only trying to stun them—"

"Sure. Whatever." Mission had walked over and picked the silver necklace off the floor. This is pretty. Can I have it?"

"What?" This pale, the freckles on her nose stood out in sharp relief. Her eyes were liquid, and she wiped them angrily. "Sure, kid. Take… take whatever."

Something beeped.

Carth looked down.

The comm on the dead woman's wrist was flashing blue.

Xxx

"Dia's not answering my comm." Beya sighed and crumbled another disgusting cake between her fingers. She stared at the blinking comm on her wrist and then across the blasted ground. Five years ago, it had been… not less wretched, here—perhaps. But different. Or I was different.

She canceled the call.

_Five years ago, I was a fool._

Davad stood up, stretching to his full height. "A pity. I think I'm going to check on the quarantined unfortunates. Some of them seemed to be suffering."

Beya felt a smile pull at her lips. _Finally._ "I'll dispatch another agent."

"You don't want to come help me dispatch some sufferers?" His own grin was feral. "Remember they used to call you an angel? Our angel of the Mercy Corps?"

"I'm surprised _you_ remember," she snapped back. "You seemed to spend most of those days wishing you were Malak D'Reev, and asking Revvie to spar Echani-style—"

A miasma of dark energy lashed at the exposed skin on her shoulder, and Beya felt gripped with an inexplicable, overwhelming fear. In a flash, Davad's breath was sour and stinking on her face. His fingernails dug into her arm like claws.

She hadn't even seen him move, from one instant to the next—he just… _had._

The yellow eyes boring into hers _burned_ with the same rage as the power he held in his hands. The terror he was projecting was almost… elemental. Her own shields struggled under the weight of it, with every instinct in her body now screaming at her to run, to hide, to _escape—_

"Do you think adrenaline hastens the rakghoul mutations?" He grinned, mad as Malachor itself. "I can almost taste yours."

"You will drop my arm and step away," she growled, summoning her own rage like a black wall between her and this ravaging Dark. _"Now,_ Arkan."

His fingers dug in more tightly. "No. You betrayed her," he muttered. "All of this comes down to you. I could kill you now. Your vassal is summoned. What use do you have left?"

He was stronger than she'd thought. Stronger than she had realized before this moment. Did Malak know?

XXX

Above Polla's head, (which was throbbing like the pressure of an ion storm above a gas giant planet, making her head feel like the gas giant itself), Captain Carth Onasi was yelling. The Twi'lek girl was yelling too. And the Wookiee was howling.

In front of her were two dead bodies. Two dead bodies the others had said she had killed.

There were other dead ones too, but for some reason, it was the two she'd killed that she couldn't tear her eyes from.

_How?_

_You broke the man's neck,_ her mind supplied. _And the woman had a bad heart. Not every sentient can survive having a stun stick shoved into their cardiac cavity over and over again._

 _It was an accident!_ The man… the man had fallen. Hit his head. Twisted… his neck somehow.

The woman had… the woman should have just answered her questions.

_I didn't know! I didn't know about her heart! They were trying to kill us!_

_And now they can't,_ her mind whispered back. _Because they're dead._

"Hey!" Wide, blue eyes stared into hers. Blue eyes. Blue face. "You okay, sis?"

"Yeah." The lie came out in a croak, but it came out.

Behind the Twi'lek, she saw other sents. The Rodian gangsters. A few mercs in battered besk—battered _armor._ Helmets made their faces expressionless.

_They put those on for a fight. The Mando'ade don't wear headgear in bars. Not unless they're planning on a fight—_

" _Mission,"_ Polla hissed. "Get back. There's more trouble over there."

The Twi'lek flicked a dismissive t'chun. "More trouble?" She turned her head, and then incredibly, laughed. "Who… them?"

["This is not your fight,"] Polla told the Mandalorians. Her hand was gripping the shock stick, like it could fracking do something against two Mando'ade in _beskar—_

"Copaani gaan?" _Need a hand?_ The taller one unclipped his helm, setting it on his belt and revealing a square, graying face. A slight smile pulled at his thin lips.

"No, I—we're good. Thanks." Polla frowned. _Thanks._ _Vor'e. "Vor'e."_

"Kandossi!" _Great job!_ His companion took off his helm too. The shorter man was younger by at least a decade and handsome. Human too, but maybe a little something a few ages in the woodshed back, like Aunt Mita used to say, from the ridges above his eyes, the greenish color of his skin. He spat on one of the bodies. "Sith hu'tuun!"

"Do you know these men, Polla?"

 _Carth?_ She turned her head and looked up at him, shaking it. "No. Of—course not. I don't know… I don't know any of these people!"

"Yeah? Because they seem to know you."

Polla stood up, better to take on Captain Obvious. At her feet, Mission was still going through the pockets of the dead with brutal efficiency.

"Trust issues? Again, Flyboy?" A spark of anger coiled in her gut. "We just almost _died—"_

_I killed someone. Two someones._

_They were going to kill me._

"Seemed like they were after you?"

Mission made a face, and tugged off the silver necklace she'd draped over her t'chin. "This thing makes my skin itch!"

 _Looks valuable—_ Polla reached for it, then dropped it as if her fingers burned.

"What the frack _is_ that?" Her foot lashed out, kicking it away. Her hand still felt a little numb. It was a strange feeling, like part of her arm had fallen asleep. "Some kind of stunner. They were trying to kidnap me!" Carth was still glaring. "Us."

"You don't look like much now." The taller Mandalorian assessed her slowly. ["But that was an impressive dispatch of two enemies in eight heartbeats. Your Clan Mother taught you well."]

"What?"

"Did he say clan? I knew it!" Carth unleashed a whole slew of curse words in—

_Gutter Telosian. Gang argot. Not so fracking fancypants if he knows that—_

"I'm from Deralia," Polla said slowly. "My name is Polla Organa. I'm a registered smuggler from Deralia."

_I've never been to fracking Telos. I know I've never been—_

"As you like." The taller man had gray eyes, like chips of rock. She'd always trusted eyes that color—you couldn't hide anything in them. ["In these times, we all wear the names we must."]

"Zaalbar… the Wookiee… he—he took down the Trandoshan. And Carth. He shot those others. And Mission, she—"

"I coulda shot them all," the tweener bragged. Under different circumstances, Polla would have liked her. Kid reminded her of herself at that age, if—reminded her of kids she'd met before, on Nar, and… and other places.

"Your companions fought well too," the Mandalorian agreed. ["With blasters. You bested them unarmed. I would like to see your work with a blade in your hand."]

"Oh?" _Fracking weirdo._ "Are you Exchange? I was hoping to meet Davik. Do you know him?" _That other Mandalorian in the cantina did. Maybe all Mandalorians know Davik._ Her brain should go back to the important banthashit. "That's why we came here. Somebody told me Holdan could make an introduction—"

"You want to work for the Exchange?" He looked her up and down, lip curling in a sneer. "You? What a waste. You belong in the dueling circle. Next time you're in the Upper City, look me up."

Mission muttered something under her breath.

"I don't know your name," Polla told him.

"Trouble," the girl at her feet bit out.

["Death,"] the Wookiee added, voice edging to a whine.

"Bendak," the Mandalorian's smile was thin. One of his teeth was gold. "Bendak Starkiller."

XXX

Davad's eyes burned, staring into Beya's, and his lips slipped back like an animal's, teeth baring—

 _He took a chunk out of Bandon,_ she remembered. _He could do the same to me._

Her hand twitched, calling the hilt from her belt and her saber slid into her grasp like safety. She nudged his ribs with it, a hot wave of fury overriding Arkan's illusion of fear.

"You could try." _Stare him down._ Maybe she couldn't match him for power, but for hate—

_We are Sith. I am Sith. I fear nothing, not even my death—_

Her comm beeped. And then beeped again.

Davad Arkan stepped backward abruptly, his hand twisting, taking the moment of her distraction to knock the saber from her hand.

She took the chance for distance as well, flipping back. Then, Beya extended her hand and the blade slapped back into her palm, igniting with a hiss. "Hold," she muttered. "Now."

"Aren't you going to answer that?"

"Yes." She jabbed the saber closer, noting his instinctive flinch. "Are you going to be a good little Sith lord and let me?"

"Please." He extended his hands, stepping farther away from her blade and giving her a courtly bow. "Go right ahead, Lady Organa."

Xxx

The Mandalorians left, after offering Polla Organa a shot in some Upper City dueling ring. _Why? Why would they do that?_ They'd all—

Carth hadn't even seen her take out those two Sith. Not really: there was just the evidence in front of him—the man had a broken neck. The woman—Carth looked more closely and realized that she had a broken neck too. The entire time Polla had been shaking her, she'd already been dead.

_Polla Organa took out two trained Imperial spooks with her bare hands?_

There—that had to be some explanation. Or… her shocked look now. Had to be an act.

It was then that a nervous Rodian came up and handed Polla a credchip for killing the woman, Dia.

Holdan's bounty.

_Icing on the Sithspawned cake!_

Polla had shot Carth a guilty look and then handed the chip to Mission.

"Thanks!" the tweener enthused. "You sure, sis?"

"You earned it." The woman picked up the ion rifle that was on the floor and handed it over too. "Here. Scope is fracked through. You're gonna have to get it fixed. Thing can't aim for kriffing stars."

"Is there a catch?" Mission Vao's brow ridges rose higher. "You didn't like, get bit by any monsters, didja? You're not about to jump off a plat?"

"No catch."

A staff of cleaning droids descended, dragging the bodies away as if this were a normal occurrence. (And it probably was, given the deadpan expressions around them.)

The woman who made no sense was still standing there in the middle of the room staring at the pile of personal effects the Twi'lek kid had collected as if she wasn't sure what they were. Carth wasn't sure what they were either.

Six blasters. Five vials of something yellow in injectable syringes. A stack of passkeys. A surprisingly small pile of cash credits. A credchip stamped with the Imperial symbol. The Trandoshan had had a locket with a small, sharp tooth in it. Carth didn't want to think about why.

And all of them had Imperial idchips, circular discs of plasteel, plain and unmarked.

_Another thing Revan and Malak borrowed from the Republic. Blank ids for their spooks._

"Wow!" On the floor Mission was shaking her head and laughing. "We scored big. Huge! Any idea what these things are _worth?"_

"Not that much," Polla Organa's voice seemed to regain some of its normal scoff. "How would you forge the biometrics?"

"That's easy. Old man Gadon, he'd pay big for these. He has slicers who could whip them into shape in no time—"

"Don't—" Carth could see what Polla was reaching for, even before she reached it.

A wrist comm. Small and expensive. Meant for a lady's wrist. The chains were links of imperial gears.

Polla's fingers traced a symbol he couldn't quite catch on its surface. _More Mandalorian?_

Nothing happened. She frowned, and slipped it on her wrist, raising it to her mouth. "Last number dialed," she said into its speaker.

"What are you doing?" Carth wondered how far the range was, if someone could track them—rage gripped his guts. "Are you _calling_ the Sith now?"

"Somebody's after us," she said flatly. "We need to know who."

The responder pinged green, indicating the connection was made. "Hello?" Polla said. "Who is this?"

XXX

" **Hello?"** the ghost's voice answered. Flat as Dantooine farmland. **"Who is this?"**

Next to her, close enough to gut, Davad exhaled. "Who is _this?"_

A pause. The sound of a man's voice in the background. Then, a childish voice interrupted with a nervous giggle. **"No. You first."** A pause. **"He can't see us, right?"**

" **I don't think so?"** The Deralian accent in Revan's voice made all of her words seem to end as questions, but this, Davad thought, was a real one.

Next to him, Beya took a step closer, her saber still lit. She raised the comm on her wrist with the other hand. "Pollie? Is that you?"

" **Huh? Who** ** _is_** **this?"**

" **I knew it!"** A man muttering in the background. **"You're in with them. You're one of them!"**

" **I'm… I'm** ** _not!_** **Who is this?"** the voice repeated. Colder now. **"Tell me who the frack you are right now, or I'll… I'll flush your fracking comm down the fresher!"**

"It's Beya. Beya Organa."

There was a long pause. Then, **"Bey—Beya? Organa? How the frack are you here?"**

"Long story." Her eyes didn't leave Davad's face but her smile deepened. "It's really me, Pollie. Beya. From home."

" **From… from… home? Me and Sera snuck out to go to that concert. And we… you helped us. You helped us get home."**

"That's right." Her voice was soothing, gentle and strange, like something from long ago.

" **What are… you're here? How are you here?"**

"I'm here to help. But I need your help too, Pollie. I'm in a bit of a jam."

" **So are we."** Ragged laughter, nothing like Revan. **"Your friends just tried to kill us?"**

" **Are you working with them? Is that it? You're a Sith collaborator?"** The man, interrupting again.

A roar in the background, and then what sounded like Revan growling back.

"Is Dia there, Pollie? May— _can_ I speak to her?"

" **You can't speak to her. She's dead."** Shuddering breath. **"They're all… all dead."**

"Are you unharmed?" Davad broke in. She didn't sound like she was in physical pain—

Beya raised an eyebrow. "Dia wasn't my friend, Polla, but she did have something I need very badly. Did she… she was going to bring me vials of rakghoul serum. Do you know what that is?"

" **Is it yellow?"**

" **That's rakghoul serum? No way!"** Child, interrupting again. **"D'you know how much that stuff is worth?"**

" **A lot, I heard."** There was a babble of voices now, as the child and Revan took the time to chatter about the local black market. If he hadn't already known the real Revan was dead, that talk would have proved it.

_Remember that time we went shopping in the bazaar on Taris, towards the end of our stay and neither of us brought enough credits? We never knew the costs of things, but I had enough to buy you a cup of caff and the sun made fire in your hair—_

Of course, Davad was dreaming of nothing. She'd remember nothing. Davad was losing patience with this enterprise. "Polla?" he broke in. "It's me here as well—"

His voice broke off, interrupted by the buzzing blade of blue uncomfortably close to his neck. But igniting her saber had brought Beya closer, close enough that he could smell her fear.

 _Fear of me._ So much of the time Davad had to hide his true nature. It was... refreshing to be free. If Malak were here now, Davad might have challenged the man. Might have let the beast unleash and ripped out the betraying bastard's throat _—_

" **Who? Who are you?"** Revan's own voice—almost, sharp with suspicion.

"Davad," he said. "From the ship? We were both on the _Endar Spire…."_

" **Davad Who, from the** ** _Spire_** the man interrupted. **"What was your rank?"**

"Just an ensign… sir. Ensign… Davad Kier," he picked the surname at random. "Look, I'm here with… with Beya, and we need your help. We're in the UnderCity. Can't miss it—last stop on the elevator from your quadrant."

" **Davad from the ship."** A heavy sigh, the Deralian accent coming to the fore again. **"I-I don't remember the ship. I had to… there was someone I had to—"**

"Don't worry about that now," Beya murmured. "Come help us, Pollie. Please."

Davad's own saber slid into his hand. The Deralian put herself in striking range—but she was too much of a duelist for that to be accidental.

_She thinks I am distracted._

" **What?"**

" **Polla, it could be a trap."** The voice on the comm hardened edged with a ton of command—and it was then that Davad thought he recognized it. _That man on the comm on the Spire. That Captain who wanted us to go to the bridge. He's still giving her orders._

" **Relax, Captain Obvious. It's just…."** A long pause and the voice sharpened again, acquiring an ice that sent shivers up Davad's spine. **"Beya. Why are you here?**

"I came here to help. Ensign Davad needs my help."

" **You said Ensign Kier before."** The man again.

"Ensign Davad Kier needs our help. We'll die without that serum, Pollie. Please."

" **I-I go by Polla now. Not Pollie. You went to Jedi. You're a Jedi?"**

"Yes, yes I am. I'm a Jedi, here with a… Republic ensign. We're trapped. We need your help."

_How can she think that will work?_

" **A Dark Jedi, maybe. Polla! You can't… you don't believe her!"**

" **She's my cousin, Carth! She's family!"**

 _Family? Just how long did Beya have Revan in her clutches to make her believe that?_ Davad wanted to rip that smug smile from Beya's face; but incredibly, her ruse seemed to be working. _You know she saw Revan in the Upper City. She admitted as much. Obviously, she planted quite a history in the woman's already cracked mind—_

"You remember me." Beya's lightsaber hummed softly, closer to Davad's person than he would have preferred. "Polla, I sent Dia to help you. What happened, exactly? How did she die?"

Davad had seen the last text message from Beya's agent himself: some frantic nonsense.

 ** _She knows,_** it had said. **_We will try restraints but she knows._**

The woman on the comm didn't seem to know anything at all. And Revan had been many things, but never an actress.

" **Dead."** A rapid intake of breath. **"She-she just died. I just wanted her to stop—but she died. They all… they're all dead."**

 _How many?_ Davad mouthed to Beya. She frowned as if she didn't quite catch his words. "How many?" he whispered.

Smiling slightly, the Deralian held up her free hand with all five fingers extended.

_Five insects. Even a mind-wiped dark lord can manage five insects—_

" **Whoever that is on the other end of that line, Polla, they're not on our side."** That man again. Somewhere in the background there was a growling noise too, a low gobble that almost sounded like speech. **"You have to see that. If… if you're not a damned Sith yourself, you have to see that."**

" **She sounds like Beya. I-I think. It's been… been a long time, since I—I can't remember the last time I saw her. She went to Jedi. She went to Jedi and then the war, her da was—"**

"—my da was pissed. He hates politics." Beya Organa laughed, sounding almost like the girl she had been. They both continued on, recounting details of this fake narrative. Davad was more focused on the Deralian's blade than her words, than her false voice, bringing up memories of a time long gone.

_All of us, so young. Such fools._

_XXX_

" _Had enough?" She shook her braids free from the band that held them when they sparred and they tumbled down around her shoulders. Beastriders strung bells in their braids, but hers were silent._

" _Never," Davad murmured, raising his blade in the training circle. He could never get enough of this._

_Revan's skin had darkened in her time on Mandalore and Eos, and her body had softened, grown lush. Despite the gravity of the Mandalorian attack, the desperation of the times, Davad was having a hard time focusing on their exercise._

_She'd always been beautiful, but hard. Now—_

_The slight smile on her face might mean that she noticed his inattention, because it widened when the tip of her training saber buzzed against his ribs._

" _You said Malak is leaving the Jedi?" Malak leaving and Revan staying. There was a logic there that Davad wanted to believe in. Malak was his father's heir, after all. But Revan in the Jedi without him…._

_Ever since their return, he never saw them together. They, who had once been inseparable. He hadn't asked, had barely left himself speculate or hope—_

" _Malak blames the Council. We both do—"_

" _It was a pretty speech you two gave the Senate." Davad couldn't quite hide the acid in his voice, not when Mandalorian patrols were rumored in the skies above Iziz. "But it will take more than pretty speeches."_

" _I know." She paused. "It will take finding others to rally to our cause. I need you, Davad." Those eyes: green and direct and frank, staring into his. He knew she meant with politics, with the Senate, with his own people. He knew and yet, still, at the time he thought—_

And then I learned she left every night. Every night she spent in the Senator's tower instead of the Temple. Then I learned Malak had left the Jedi, but Rev would never leave him—

_Xxx_

"— **yellow with injectors built in? There's five of them? Is that the serum? Thought it was some kind of stim."**

"Yes, that's it." Beya took a step backward, finally, not letting go of her saber. Behind her, Davad saw their old, wretched servitor approach, and then freeze as he took in the scene. "Bring them here. Now."

" **Take** **the first elevator down, you said?"**

"Yes," Davad interrupted. "We'll see you soon?"

" **Hey! Where did that bartender go? The one I shot? Did you kill him, bud?"** A child's voice again. Not the first time Revan had attracted an orphanage. Davad would have to be careful. Children were easily scared and he did not want his prize to bolt.

" **Damn! He's gone! We have to—"**

Their voices were muffled, farther away from the comm.

" **Polla, we have to go. Now. Are you— you're not still on that comm? Blast, don't you realize—"**

A buzz of static, and then the line went dead.

"Her companion seems slightly less gullible," Davad noted dryly.

"She'll come." Beya's smile was smug. "She could hardly refuse _me."_

"Either her mind is entirely cracked, or I commend your skill with compulsion," Davad said lightly.

"Both can be true." The Deralian beamed, her smile as cold as Revan's.

_Xxx_

Polla bent down and pocketed up the five yellow vials of serum. "Beya will help us," she repeated stubbornly. She stared at the weapons for a sec, then grabbed that Chiss's disrupter, shoving it into her boot. _Be a waste to just leave that lying around._

"Your cousin." Carth didn't buy it, that was obvious in every line of his body. "Your cousin the Jedi who just _happens_ to be here?"

"My cousin, the Jedi, who needs my help! I don't know what kind of fracking planet you're from, but from where I'm from we help—"

"Sith." The word seemed to erupt from the pilot's gut. "You're helping Sith."

"They're just people!"

"Whoa. Okay." The Twi'lek girl interrupted them suddenly. "You're kinda… pushing it there. Do you know what they've done on Taris?"

"I don't care." It had been Beya's voice. Probably. She'd known stuff. What kind of trap would dig up a cousin you barely knew as bait anyway? And why would the Sith want to trap _her_ in the first place?

_Dia said she was bringing us in. Maybe we should have gone. Maybe I shouldn't have killed…._

The room was empty, except for the four of them: her, Carth, the Wookiee and that Twi'lek kid. While she'd been talking on the comm, the cantina's clean-up crew had come and gone, leaving only the pile of stuff Mission had taken from the bodies.

_Our spoils._

"It's a Sith planet. Beya's a Jedi. Jedi fight Sith. If those guys were with her, these were probably like, secret Republic agents that we just killed."

"Huh." The Twi'lek kid raised both eye ridges, lekku wrapping around her neck. "Okay. Me and Big Z are gonna… gonna go now. Okay?" The Twi'lek deftly swept up the idchips and pocketed them, backing off. "You can keep the rest of the junk."

"Be careful," Polla told her, eyes never leaving Captain Obvious.

["Watch your own steps upon the branch,"] the Wookiee groaned.

Behind Carth, both vanished through the open door.

Carth Onasi just stared at her. "Polla. I know you… you hit your head. You… you've been confused ever since we got here—but this entire thing… it stinks. You have to see that."

"You don't have to come with me."

"I don't want to," he muttered. "But I'm worried about you."

"That's sweet."

"You don't sound like it is."

"That's because it's not. I can take care of myself, Flyboy. I'm a free agent, remember?"

"Yeah." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "I remember. You've made it all pretty damned clear."

"Then buzz off." She looked down at the broken comm unit, the one he'd grabbed out of her hand and then fracking fried with his blaster, and suddenly, she was so angry she could almost taste it. "I don't need you."

"I see." If looks could kill, Polla thought she'd be dead. "I see that now."

He turned and walked out before she could say more. But really, what more was there to say?

_Beya needs me._

_Xxx_

" _Hey!"_

"What?" Mission turned her head, peering around Big Z just in time to see an out-of-breath geezer run up to them—that guy from Jayvar's, the one who taken out Eli the Chiss with like one blaster bolt.

Zaalbar whined warningly. ["That one smells like pain, Mission. Do not engage."]

"We're already engaged, kinda." She giggled. Big lunkhead wouldn't even get the pun. "What did the nice lady who gave me stuff smell like?"

["Like the Starkiller. Death."]

"You're a real bundle of laughs today—"

The geezer had not gotten the hint, 'cause he was still following, stepping faster to keep up.

"Wait," he repeated. "Before all that… that happened, you said something about captured Republic pilots and a swoop race?"

"You got a bike?" Maybe he had values after all. "I'm pretty good, but Zaerdra won't let me ride in the officials, you know? She worries too much. Not like she's my mom…."

"No, I-I just want to help them."

"Then you gotta win the race. Or break into the Black Vulkar base… if the Vulkars are dumb enough to keep em there." Mission shrugged. "My credits are on not… but they are pretty dumb. You know? And hey, what about your girlfriend? Is she really Sith?"

"I don't know what she is."

"You can talk to Gadon and Zaerdra if you want. If you come in with me, Beks will let you in. I'm in tight with them, even if I'm not like, a real member. Not officially. Gadon says when I'm older, but he's kind of out-of-touch. You know? Streets are pretty rough, and we kids have our own gangs, but it's not the same—"

"Thought you said you weren't a kid."

Mission giggled. "You're _funny!"_

["I do not understand the joke."]

"What did he say?"

Mission gave the man more props for figuring out that Zaalbar was actually talking, and not just some overgrown pet.

"Zaalbar doesn't really find a lot of stuff as funny as we do. He likes jokes about… trees." She shrugged, looking up at him. He had a square, furry, human face. "That's kind of funny, right? Because there are none here. I liked your girlfriend." She didn't, really, but he looked like he was worrying about her. "You sure she's gonna be okay?"

"I'm not sure of anything," the guy muttered. "But we're not… it's not like that."

Xxx

_Good riddance, Captain Carth Onasi. I don't need you!_

Polla reached in her pocket and realized she'd left that shock stick behind.

_I've got credits though, and that blaster. I'll buy another stunner. Right after I save Beya. She's a Jedi, right? Jedi can get me out of this mess!_

The elevator was at the end of a deserted corridor, lights around flickering on and off. A battered sign announced that bioscanners had been installed and would stop "anyone infected with the rakghoul virus from traveling past the Lower City. Travelers were advised to "descend at their own risk."

_Screw Carth Onasi. Frack the Republic._

Polla pushed the button, and her stomach dropped as the lift descended. The lights flickered when the doors opened upon a dark and dusty ground that smelled oddly of kelp and mold and something industrial, like rotting metal.

She stepped out cautiously, blinking in the dim light.

They seemed to appear between one blink and the next: two figures wearing dark robes. The man had dark skin, almost gray in this light. The woman was ghost-pale, with dark hair falling past her chin, half hiding her features.

The woman, she noted, was watching the man, and not looking directly at Polla at all.

"Hello," the man said. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

Polla blinked at him. "Hello," she echoed. Even though he'd told her who he was, those memories on the ship were a blur: flashing lights, dead people, the Jedi and—

"Not-Trask," she said. "That's who you are! You were the one, you… you just left!" _Asshole. He left me to die._

"You left me to die up there!"

"I never wanted you dead," he murmured, taking a step closer. "If there is anything left at all, know that _I_ never wanted you to die—"

"Polla!" The woman interrupted sharply, her features resolving themselves into familiar ones as she came closer, flicking back the hair from her face. "Polla! It's me. Did you bring the serum?"

"Yeah, I—" _Beya. She looks like shit._ "You look like shit, Beya."

"An effect of the illness. Please. There isn't much time." Beya had an edge to her voice now, like she was trying to sound all Core and sophisticated. If she hadn't looked so fracking grim, Polla might have teased her for it.

"Here." Polla fumbled in her pocket as they both approached, both of them suddenly closer than seemed reasonable.

Up close, Beya really did look like hell. Or like she'd been there. Her hair was graying at the temples, and she was so thin that Polla could see the cords in her neck, almost see the skull beneath the skin of her sunken eyes.

_She's not that much older than me and Sara! Frack, what happened to her?_

Beya's eyes… which had been an unusual (for Deralia) shade of blue, were now transformed into dark brackish yellow, the color of mud.

Her companion didn't look much better. His hair was shaved too close to his skull to be any more than a shadow, but his lips were dull and cracked and close up, his skin was mottled and splotched. His eyes were yellow too. _Yellow is bad, but not red, at least it's not red_ _—_

"Here." Polla handed Beya one if the vials and the woman instantly injected herself. Polla's fingers closed around the other one still in her pocket, and eyed the man again, warily.

"You said your name was…" it took her a sec. "Davad?"

"Yes." He nodded slowly, those eyes not leaving her face. There was a gash on his leg, and dried blood caking the dark fabric of his trousers. He smiled slightly at her, almost shy.

"Are you a Jedi too? Because you said you weren't, but that's a laser sword, right? That thing hanging on your belt?" _It's sure not his dick._

For some reason, her face felt too warm, she jerked her eyes back up to his face to the trace of a smile there.

"Yes." He nodded. "I'm a Jedi too. My name is Knight Arkan."

"Oh, this is _adorable,"_ Beya snapped.

"You may go," the man told Polla's cousin. Even if he was staring at Polla, she knew he wasn't talking to her.

Beya gave an incredulous laugh. "Really? May I?"

"Here." Polla remembered the serum and held it out to him. His hands were colder than she expected, and he held hers a moment longer than she expected. It'd be flattering, being stared at like she was the last woman in the galaxy by a handsome, strange Jedi, if he didn't also look like he might be an extra from one of those scary space brain-damaged holovids.

_Jedi don't look like that. You know what they are._

"Thank you," he murmured, and sank the ampule into his arm, discarding the vial a millisecond later. "Much better."

"Why did you tell me you weren't a Jedi?" _And you're not a Jedi. And if you're no Jedi, then what are you—_

"I never said I was not." When he smiled he had dimples, oddly ajar with the frozen planes of the rest of his face.

"But _yellow_ eyes… they…."

"Yes?" His voice was gentler than his face. Something… something about it made Polla want to close her eyes and imagine him differently, lean into him. Let his strong arms—

 _The frack?_ She took a hasty step backward, stammering. "Eyes. They're not… not always yellow. Eyes change color. Eyes can change color, you know?"

"We know," he murmured. "Yours are the color of jungle leaves in this light. They were the color of the sun once. They were beautiful."

"I might be sick," Beya interrupted. "Right now."

"Can you _make_ her remember?" He smiled again, and Polla felt something… weird, like her thoughts were sleepy and slow. "Her mind is… locked. I can barely sense it at all."

_Sadness. He's sad. Not a feeling, just like I know that expression._

_Or the feeling behind it._

_Captain Obvious looks like that sometimes—looks like that sometimes, when he doesn't know I'm looking—he looks like that._

_Not at me. It's not about me—_

Only this man—this Jedi man—was staring right at her.

"You want me to tell you about Beya?" Polla asked, trying to make light of the situation. "I can tell you _everything_ about Beya, if that'll jog her memory. Long time since she was home. Rumor was, she used Jedi magic to cheat on her six-year exams, and then, that was the year we all had the bad harvest, and my ma said that her cousin told her that over on Jada Farm they—"

"Pollie, I'm sure Davad's not interested in all of that!" Beya's voice sharpened.

"So much detail in a lie. Was she real once?"

"No offense, but is he crazy?" Polla sidestepped carefully away from the potentially crazy man with the laser sword and the yellow eyes.

_You know what he is. Like the man on the ship. The man who killed Trask—_

She felt her breath catch. _Lights going out on a grid. This is my death here. This could be my death—_

"He's nuts, but he's loyal, Pollie. Do you like him?"

"Sure," she lied, wishing her gun was closer than her boot suddenly. She backed up, wishing there was a corner, but the platform wall curved and the giant wall about twenty meters away did too. But there were people over there. Maybe less crazy people.

Her thoughts felt thick and slow. Like the sky was pressing down again, like it was cold—

Beya's head turned to the man's. Her voice was conversational. "I hope you like farms, Arkan, because Polla here is a farmer's daughter through and through. Easier to shatter a ferracrystal vase than to reassemble the pieces."

"Excuse me?" she interrupted. "I'm standing right here!"

Their heads turned, almost at the same time. Beya looked startled.

"She still retains a command of Ancient Si—"

"She always had a gift for it. Perhaps her other gifts are the same. You'll come with me," Davad told Polla. Not really told. Kind of commanded. "We'll go to my ship."

_He's not a Jedi. You know what he is. You saw that one—those ones on the ship. You saw them before. Yellow eyes. Yellow is bad, but not as bad as red—_

"I will not!" Polla took a step away from him. "I'm free." She took another step and her blood froze.

There were two dead guys propped on the wall. One was holding what looked like a tray with plates on it. Burned food. She'd seen a hessi once, hit in a lightning storm. It had looked like that too.

Beya chuckled. "I said you were free. Do you remember _that,_ Polla?"

"When?" She kept her voice as calm as possible because something was… the more time she spent with them, the more she felt it. A coldness, like something in the air. _Like ice._ "Last time I saw her I was with my cousin Sara. We went to this concert and didn't tell our parents? We got pulled over, but Beya got us out of trouble—"

"A charming tale." The man—Davad—was staring at her cousin now, frowning. "And so complete. When was this?"

"I don't—I was fourteen… sixteen?"

"You at sixteen." He shook his head. "How I used to dream—"

"Okay! Don't be a creep!" Colder now, like the chill was setting into her very bones. "Are you sure you're a Jedi? You don't… seem… you… you don't. You're not—"

Patches of memory assailed her: a dark-haired woman, blue eyes. _Blue._

_XXX_

_"You've had another nightmare. It's just the head injury, Polla. You'll be fine." The woman's eyes were a dark blue, like Beya's, a little. Like Beya's weren't now. But she was younger, so kind._

_Her name dangled on the tip of Polla's tongue. Her friend._

Trust her. You can always trust her.

_"Dye her hair black," someone said, from a place outside the world. "Maybe that will help."_

_She screamed again, limbs lashing out, something was wet, sticky._

Tank, I'm in a tank. Seiran dared me to run the canyon wall and I fell—

XXX

_"Seiran Wen?" She smiled at him. "Hey."_

_"Heard you were back in town," he said. "Did you come for the races? Qualifier's next week. I do some work on swoop gliders now, if you're interested."_

_Polla hadn't known that. Backwater swoops seemed small spacers compared to the galaxy out there."It's been seven years. I sold my bike after graduation."_

_"I could hook up_ _—_ _hook you up with something." Was he… blushing?_

_If you were in the mood for adorable, Polla might find that adorable. But she wasn't. She drained her drink. It had been ages since she ran the swoops, but she knew the routes like the back of her hands._

_"What course is the qual on?" Maybe now was a good time to give it all up. Become a famous swoop racer, instead of a smuggler. She could too. It wasn't a bad idea._

_"Janstak's Loop." Seiran had a nice smile, maybe a little too soft. His lips were big, like purses. Kissing them would be very different than kissing someone like Therion: all teeth and lies and infidelity._

XXX

_But I never did. I never saw him again. My speeder hit the canyon wall and I fell—_

Her eyes snapped open. The man's face was too close. His breath smelled _bad,_ like meat rotting.

"Move away from me," she muttered.

"How did you reach her before?" He wasn't looking at her at all now, was staring at the other one. More details of their surroundings began to filter through Polla's consciousness: the two fried sents in the corner, another dead body near the lift itself. A tray and two cups of caff on the ground.

Like these two assholes had been having a picnic surrounded by death.

Across an expanse of open ground, she saw a gate and more people. Human, it looked like. They were trying to fix a hole in the gate. It looked like. Something… something came through the hole. It ran on all fours and had barbed spurs for hands. It started to tear one of the fence builders apart.

"I don't know." Woman's voice. _Cousin Beya._

"Rather a complete set of memories. And you can't reach her now? Try."

"Polla," Beya said. "Shoot Davad with the blaster you've got in your boot."

"How did you know?" She—she bent down, she—

"I can see the bulge." Her cousin chuckled. "Go ahead, He won't die."

Suddenly, the smell of burnt… _people_ reached her, and she wanted to puke.

"No." Reality came into crisp focus. What was important _now._ What was real. "That… thing over there. What's it doing to those people?"

Beya's head turned. "Killing them, it appears."

 _No._ "We need to stop it. We need… we need to stop it."

Davad sighed. "I thought the Jedi programmed her to be a drunk."

"We could just let her go try and stop them herself?" Beya shrugged. "What do you think she could do with a weapon?"

"It would be an interesting test. She took out five, you said? In the cantina?"

Their voices dimmed to nonsensicality. Polla realized they'd stopped speaking Basic at some point, although what language they _were_ speaking seemed to slip through her mind, glancing off like a forcefield. Impossible to know.

Someone was… someone was screaming. The monsters… the—the _rakghouls_ were coming. There were more of them. There were more—

"We have to help them," Polla said. She broke into a run, leaving the other behind. Her blaster was in her hands before she even thought.

XXX

_She tore across the coast, perched precariously on top of her hessi. Her topknot swung over her eyes and she clutched the pony's mane tight. Dancer's eight legs sliced through the ferra grass. She was racing with her cousin Sara, and she was winning. She always won. Polla Organa, the fastest tweener racer on all of Deralia._

— _Memory, Chapter 5_

_A/N This is the revised version, typos fixed-as well as a few continuity issues. Song is "Hello" by Adele, cheesy as an UnderCity bar on an interdicted planet._

_Please review, with choca sprinkles on top. I feel silly asking, but hey._


	6. Don't Count on Any Second Coming

_ "Seriously, Polla Revan?" Mission's hologram interrupted. "Don't be so dramatic." — Memory, Chapter 2 _

 

**Chapter Six / Don't Count on Any Second Coming**

XXX

The Chiss had shot Carth, just a score across the top of his arm, but it burned like fire. He tried not to think about it, tried to focus on the hall, the kid, and her Wookiee in front of him. 

What worried him was that guard station they were approaching, with its red, flashing lights and automated turrets.

“Careful, kiddo.” 

“What? I told you already! I ain’t no  _ kid!” _

Polla’s ion rifle was practically as long as the little blue Twi’lek who was carrying it. Carth bit back pointing that out when the Wookiee looked back and growled at him.

Mission Vao was shorter than—girls were shorter than boys—although if she was fourteen in Taris cycles that had to be close, that had to be—close. Maybe a little younger. Taris was about the same class of planet as Telos, days about as long. Longer than Coruscanti days. Standard Galactic, she’d be older, few years, maybe. 

He’d done the math in his head before.

_ He’d be taller than she is. Like I was. I shot right up about that age. Morgana’s father was tall. He’d be taller—someday, maybe even taller than me. _

_ If he had lived. _

“Careful,” Carth repeated to the kid who was standing right in front of the turret now. Above their heads, a blue light flashed and then beeped.

_ Surveillance?  _ He tried not to look jumpy. “I don’t like the look of that—”

“Huh?”

The Wookiee growled something, long and low. Impossible to see how there were words in that noise.

“Big Z says, if you’re freaked about the guns, don’t be. TarSec puts em here, but they’re too chicken to stay and we turn the sensors off—easy!” Mission ran forward, straight into the gun’s range, while Carth’s heart went to his throat. The light beeped again and she nodded, pointing to the cathode array attached to the ceiling. “Cept we leave the bioscanners alone. Nobody wants a rakghoul party.  _ Nobody.” _

The Wookiee rumbled something else.

“Big Z says, that’s for sure!” The kid leaned against the deactivated turret, grinning.

Her carelessness was just like Polla’s.

_ Maybe that’s why they get along so well. _

It bugged him, that he’d just let the smuggler go.

_ She told you to leave. You left. She wanted to go meet some Sith down in the Undercity where the rakghouls are—alone. You thought that was a bad idea. _

_ You let her go down there alone. _

_ She proved she can take care of herself. It’s a war. My responsibility isn’t to some crazy Sith sympathizer. It’s to the Republic. The Fleet. Even those useless Jedi that didn’t do a damned thing to stop the Sith from taking down our ship _ —

Carth’s arm hurt, and he reached up, touching the place where the disrupter had grazed his skin. Jacket sleeve was half melted, and his arm felt burned. 

_ You’re lucky it didn’t get disintegrated. Hell of a thing. A few millimeters closer and you’d only have a stump. _

“Come on.” Mission was knocking on a panel in the wall behind the turret. It slid open under her hands, and a purple Twi’lek woman appeared in a doorway that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“No, Mission. Absolutely not!” she opened with, before the girl had the chance to say anything. She was glaring at Carth, making it clear what she was talking about.

“Oh, c’mon Zaerdra, he took out Eli the Chiss in one shot! He got hurt trying to save me and Zaal! Course, we had stuff under control, but still—”

“He's got credits and a face for the Upper City. Let him go there. Med supplies are limited as it is!”

“I have my own.”  _ More than I need on my own.  _ “Here.” Carth fished in his pocket and brought out a handful of kolto packs. “Here. Some for you guys too.”

“Oh!” Zaerdra's eye ridges raised. “Well, that changes things. Some.”

“Enough?” Carth tried to smile and look harmless, ignoring the burn in his arm.

“We’ll see.” One of her headtails lifted, beckoning. “But I’m keeping my eye on you, soldier.”

“Soldier?” He tried to laugh it off.  _ What keeps giving me away?  _ “I’m just a—smuggler. Caught here in the blockade like every other off-worlder.”

“Hrm…” she shifted on her feet, looking him up and down. “You’ve got an honest face, for a smuggler.”

“We got other stuff too,” Mission added. “Wait’ll you see—”

“Inside.” Zaerdra stepped to the side and let them enter.

Xxx

Polla ran towards the gate. There were five sents still standing, and another three on the ground. There were three rakghouls that she could see crowded at the gate, and another that seemed to be dead, lying on top of an achingly small body.

Something had broken the gate from the outside, shattering the makeshift durasteel plates into twisted ribbons.

_ Rakghouls can do that?  _ Polla shivered.  _ If they can do that, why are these people still fracking here at all? _

“Help!” She called out, looking back. “We have to help them!”

Beya and Davad just stood where she'd left them, staring at her.  _ Assholes. _

Ahead, the people were ragged and dirty and poor. They were fighting with literal sticks and a few poles of what looked like durasteel rebar—construction materials meant to mend the broken gate—maybe. Debris was scattered everywhere.

And there were monsters. Three of them, and another lay dead on the sand. Looked like someone had gotten in a lucky shot and bashed its head open. The monsters were gray and had barbs along their legs and arms, ridges of spikes along their spines. Their heads seemed to be all made of teeth, mouths open wide, when they weren’t tearing into their victims.

_ I have to help! _

Polla ran closer, trying to get an angle on the monsters that wouldn't include the poor sents they were trying to eat.

She fired, but the shot went wild. She fired again, and one of the monsters looked up from the man it was trying to tear apart and lumbered forward in Polla’s direction.

“Frack you!” She fired again and again, but it kept advancing.

_ This gun’s a piece of shit too. Shoulda kept the rifle. _

Her foot nudged against a piece of metal bar half-buried by debris and she had a strange impulse to drop the gun and pick it up.

_ Yeah, because that makes sense. Let’s fight the moon-fracked monster with a stick. _

Gritting her teeth, Polla aimed again and fired. Only five meters now. There was no way she could miss—

The bolt grazed one of the monster’s legs. Not the headshot she’d been trying for.

_ Run. Or stand and fight. Just don’t stand there like a lost manka— _

“Hey!” Her voice felt thin, too high in the wind. “Help! We need to help them!”

“They're dead already.” The feminine voice was soft behind her. A hand closed on Polla’s arm with a grip like durasteel. “They’ve all been scratched by now. At least.”

“Beya.” Polla didn’t dare turn away from the advancing thing, but she tried to tug her arm—her arm with the blaster—free. “Please! We need to try!”

“Humor her.” Davad was suddenly on Polla’s other side, although she’d sworn that seconds ago he’d been much farther away. He extended his hand and a red-lit blur flew from it, arcing out. The rakghoul thing toppled, with half its head suddenly gone. The red light was back and the sound of it was—that sound—

_ Lightsaber. On the ship. That man had one, the one who killed Trask—and the others—the Sith and the Jedi— _

“You’re Sith,” she mumbled. “I-I mean, I knew, but… thanks.”

“Thank you for the Sith?” Davad chuckled. “Or, thank  _ you _ for the Sith?”

“I-I don’t—” She didn’t like him. He made her skin crawl—and yet there was something—

Some horrible monster was howling. One of the rakghouls.  _ Run, I need to run— _

“Help!” A kid came running towards them, but froze, wide-eyed, as if he'd just realized who he was running to. Kid was Human, maybe ten or eleven. “Oh! N-no, please. Don't hurt me!”

“We won’t,” Polla whispered. His head was shaved.  _ Lice. They get lice down here.  _ She took a step forward, dropping the blaster to show him they were the good guys.  _ Run? No. I’m not fracking running. Let the guy with the laser sword use it on the monsters, not people.  _ “Are you okay? You should leave this place. It’s not safe.”

“You're bleeding already, child,” Beya murmured. “And from those scabs on your leg, you've been bitten before.”

“Will he die?” A part of her was watching the others, the rakghoul behind them—and then Davad, the man in dark robes... suddenly moved from being beside them to jumping into the fray. He had his laser sword—lightsaber—in his hand now and the sentients scattered, while the monsters advanced.

“Everyone does.” Beya put her hand on Polla’s arm. “This… upsets you, doesn’t it? All of this death?”

“Of course it fracking does! Doesn’t it upset you?”

Her cousin laughed. “You get used to it.”

Davad was killing another monster with a lightsaber. A few slashes and the thing was dead. But instead of cheering, the sents around the gate scattered at his approach.

“Don't—” she whispered the word, but he was already moving, extending a hand. One of the injured slammed into the wall. A twist of his hand and a sickening crack came after.  _ Neck. He broke that woman’s neck. _

_ Red. You knew his laser sword would be red. You know what they are— _

_ “Don't!”  _ She picked up the blaster again. Her shot winged by Davad’s shoulder, meant for his knee, meant as a warning; but her vision was blurry. “Stop!” 

Davad looked up, brown face a blank oval from this distance. In another instant, he had moved behind the broken gate, vanishing from sight.

Beya’s fingers tightened on her arm. “Davad gets excited. We should leave him the hunt. You need to come with me….”

A soft groan snapped Polla’s attention away from her cousin. The little bald kid was still standing there, looking frozen in terror, backed against the wall.

“Help,” the boy whispered. “Please. It hurts.”

_ Frack.  _ “You need a medix. I know a doc, on the upper levels. Those bites look infected, they look—”

“He’ll turn soon,” Beya murmured. “I can feel it. Can you?”

“Turn?” Beya had latched onto Polla’s arm again like a mynock. Her fingers felt like ice. Polla tugged her arm away, stepping back sharply.

“Into a rakghoul.” Her cousin smiled at her, like this was a fracking harvest dance. “You need to come with me now, Polla Organa.”

_ I’m Polla Organa.  _ “I-I need to come with you.” The blaster fell from her hand. She didn’t need it.

The boy was still staring at them, wide-eyed and frightened. “Please….” he whispered. “My sister Malya went to look for serum, but she never came back.”

“Oh. You've been bitten.” Polla fumbled in her pocket. The world seemed too slow, laced with syrup, like eridu stuffing in her head. “I have serum…it’s yellow, right?”

His eyes were brown. His face was narrow, features still young, voice cracking. His eyes widened. “You do? I'd do… I'd do anything—”

“I know you would.” Beya chuckled, and the boy started back, suddenly afraid again.

“I don't need help from Sith.” His face was slicked with sweat. He didn’t look good.

“We’re not Sith,” Polla told him. “Least… I’m not. Here.” She held out one of her remaining three vials and the boy grabbed it, injecting himself quickly. 

He looked up at them once more—terrified. “You're wearing black robes. Just like them.”

“It's a coat,” Polla said.

“Kind of you,” Beya whispered in her ear. “Always thinking of others.”

Polla looked over again, even as the boy’s footsteps pattered into the distance. The rakghouls were dead… and so were the sents who had been trying to hold them back.

“Davad killed them.” She felt numb somehow. Inside. A part of her was starting to panic, but it felt slow and trapped, like her fear was weighed down with stones.

“Correction: he is killing them. There are more rakghouls beyond the gates and Davad enjoys this sort of thing.” Beya’s fingers were wrapped around her wrist like a vise. “Do you?”

“No.” Polla shook her head. “I shot trawler deer with my da, and birds a few times but I never—”

“Never? What about Dia? And her men? Dircassian said you were very… efficient.”

“Who?”

They were walking and Beya was leading, dragging Polla by the wrist like she was fifteen (sixteen?) again, and they had to face the—face ma and da and that was Sara, not Beya at all. The wind blew sand in their faces. Polla squinted her eyes.  _ Wish I was home. _

“Dircassian. The bartender. He saw your work—you, and your… escort. Where did you find a Wookiee? There can't be many on this world.”

_ On Kashyyyk. Where else would I—?  _ “What?”

“That Republic slave they've got following you. And the child and the Wookiee.”

“They were just there… and Carth’s not a slave—why the frack would you think that?”

_ Because she’s Sith. Cousin Beya the Sith. Sith have slaves.  _ “Your da would have a few words to say if he could see you now!” Polla added. “Beya Organa the Sith slaver? What the frack is that?”

Beya chuckled. “Be silent now.”

“I—” Polla didn't want to talk anymore. She just felt… numb.

Beya led Polla like she was a dumb hessi, around the corner, to a deserted hut banked against the outer wall. Inside it smelled like damp rot. There was a child’s land speeder toy in the corner, some bed mats rolled against the wall.

_ Someone else lives here. Or lived. They might be dead. _

Polla was freezing.

“Sit,” Beya told her. “While I decide what to do with you next.” She sat too, taking Polla’s hand. Her fingers were ice-cold.

Polla felt her knees bend, her ass hit the floor. The back of the hut was curved and she edged into it.

“You don't need to be afraid,” Beya told her. She brushed Polla’s hair off her forehead. Her hand tugged at Polla’s top-knot, straightening it. “There is no fear. Not anymore.”

“I'm not afraid.” But she was, she just couldn't move.

“I am always afraid, but I don't let it rule me.” Her cousin’s eyes gleamed in the dim light. Was it twilight—did that made it so dark? “I don't know what to do with you.”

_ Dangerous. This is your death. She is your death. _

“Huh? I'm free! I'm not yours!” Polla jerked her wrist back.

Beya let go of her, laughing slightly. “Don't run.”

“I won’t run.” Polla felt like that was a lie, but her legs wouldn't move to prove it. “But I’m free,” Polla reminded her, although she felt anything but.

“None of us ever were.” Beya turned Polla's hand over over and ran a finger across the palm. “Do you remember that witch woman we met on Wayland? She said we had great destinies. I couldn't sense the Force in her at all, but you said we made our own fate. Then, she said we'd die young. I thought she just wanted credits.”

“That wasn’t me.” So, Beya was nuts. “Uh, you know we met this doc in the Upper City? I could introduce you. Maybe you need someone… to… talk to?”

“He saw your face? What was his name?”

“Forn—Forn something.”  _ Dodonna? No, that isn’t right.  _ “Something Forn. Doctor... Forn.”

“No relation,” Beya said, chuckling to herself like that made sense. “So many have seen, but most won't know what it is they see. You look more like Sheris than yourself.”

“I'm not like, wanted or anything.” Polla forced a laugh. “Not in this sector! Who’s Sheris?” The name tugged at a memory, like someone had said that before. “Is she another cousin? Your side of the family, there’s like a hundred Organas.”

“Sheris Organa.” Beya’s mouth quirked. “It has a certain ring.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know her.”

“You were never going to let her live. Once you arranged Deralia as a test of my loyalty that was entirely clear.” Beya sighed. “I confess, even after all that has come between us, I find this choice difficult.”

“I don’t fracking kill sents! I didn’t… fracking… kill Sheris Organa!”

“Dia and her men…?” Beya smirked. “Do you believe in an afterlife like the Grass Priests? Because they’ll be waiting for us both in hell. Along with so many others.”

“I only killed two of them!” The words felt like they were coming from someplace underwater, welling up from her gut before Polla’s brain had a chance to censor them. “T-the others, Carth and the Wookiee and that kid—they killed the other ones—”

“Only two.” Polla’s Sith cousin had a fracking scary smile, even in the half-dark. Or maybe especially in the half dark. “How?”

“H-how?”

“How did you kill them?” Beya’s voice made it an abstract.

“I-I don’t—the woman—she just died. I didn’t—”  _ it wasn’t just her heart. It was her neck too. _

“How?”

Something in Polla’s gut tightened again, like the words welled up from there and not her brain. “Necks. Their necks were broken. I must have—maybe they fell or—”

“You broke their necks? With your hands?”

“How the frack else would I—” Her brain supplied gristly answers like it was cycling through variations on hyperdrive coupling.  _ With the hard edge of a bladed weapon. With a stick. With—who the frack breaks necks with their hands in the first fracking place? Who the frack breaks necks? _

“I didn’t do it.” She wanted to curl up into a ball and close her eyes, but her limbs felt frozen. “I dunno what happened up there. M-maybe Carth, he coulda shot them. He’s a soldier with the Republic Fleet—”

“He’s a war hero.” Beya laughed again. “There’s a song. I don’t suppose you ever had the mind for such things—even when you had a mind….” She hummed something, soft. Almost to herself.

Did the Sith make you crazy? Polla felt like the top layer of her mind was desperately trying to rationalize something that could not be rational. Rational would be getting up and running away—rational would be—

_ Her saber’s on her belt. She’s distracted. She finds you distracting. Use it. Get closer. Gut her if this can’t be salvaged— _

“He’s nice.” The thoughts felt dragged from her guts again, made into words. “Carth is… nice. He’s kind. And… h-he has a great ass. And… muscles. On his arms… his face gets all funny when I scare him.” She wanted to laugh because she wanted it to be funny. “He’s kinda sensitive though. I don’t know what crawled up his beam—”

“Not my type, Pollie.” Beya leaned forward again, wiping a tear that Polla didn’t know had fallen from her cheek. Polla’s face felt numb. “Any more than you are, kid.” Her voice edged, losing the posh Core accent, until she sounded like home again. “Fracking hells, you wouldn’t last a millisecond against our master; or even the least of us. You bend like a thisla sapling in a light rain. That frack-damned Order turned your brains to sludge—”

“Order?”  _ She’s crazy. Nod and agree with her.  _ “Right. We need to get everything in order down here and then maybe we’ll go see Doc Dodonna—”

“What?”

“Forn. I-I mean Forn.”  _ Why did I say Dodonna? Dodonna Forn? _

“Sludge,” Beya muttered. “I could make you jump off a plat and you’d call me cousin and cry. No power left. You’re not even a threat to  _ her.  _ Not like this.”

“I’m not gonna jump off a plat!”  _ She’s crazy. Right. Play along. Try and play along.  _ “Uh, unless you think it’s a good idea, Cousin Beya.” The smile wasn’t working, but she’d found her limbs enough to hug her own ribs. Her teeth were chattering. Something inside felt… strange, like a cold light, working its way through her gut. Her head felt too heavy for her neck.

“But even so. You could be used against her.” Beya’s eyes were luminous, and her hand had moved to the saber at her belt. “You won't feel any pain. I can do that much.”

“Won't feel….” Something made Polla look up, toward the doorway. There was a shadow there, hooded, looming above her cousin. “Beya!” She grabbed the other woman’s arm, fumbling for her blaster, but it was gone.  _ Again? I dropped it again? _

“Careful,” murmured Davad Arkan. He hadn’t been there a moment ago. Polla could  _ swear  _ he hadn’t been there a moment ago.

XXX

“Thank you.” Lord Malak stood up from the bed, reaching for the robe that lay discarded on the floor. It levitated into his hand, and he draped it gently over her shoulders. “I hope that was… pleasant.”

Lord Malak was always formal after, as if once the fire of passion had found its release, his mind went to the manners he must have learned on Coruscant, before he even came to the Jedi.

“It was perfect, my lord.” Long ago, she’d looked at holonovels, scripts to find out how a well-bred woman from the Core would have behaved in this situation—not that Revan Starfire had ever been one, no more than Sheris Darkstar had. But now, the formal phrases came almost as naturally as breathing. “Had I known you were going planetside, I would have kept the suite. We could have ordered breakfast, if we were there instead of here.”

“Tired of ship rations?” The Force was soft with his teasing intentions, even if the voder made Malak’s voice flat. “As am I, although of course….” Still naked, he walked across the room. Muscles flexed in his back, the thick lines of his thighs. From the side, he looked carved in marble, lines of Sith corruption stippling his pale skin like some Zabrak god of old.

_ Stupid, Sheris. Very stupid!  _ “You said you enjoyed watching me eat.” 

“I do.” He’d turned back to that display, the globe of Taris floating above his personal desk by the viewport. “But there is some unrest. If you tire of rations, I could have the officer’s chef prepare you something—”

“You said  _ she _ only ate what her men did. It inspires loyalty.”

“They would hardly know.” From the way his muscles tensed, mentioning  _ her _ had been a mistake.

“The chef’s Bothan. You know how they like to gossip.”

“Then we should replace him with one who cannot.” His brows raised, which meant he was joking, almost surely. “Or rip out his tongue?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She wrapped the cape around her shoulders. It still smelled of him, and scorched flesh. She had grown to like it. “The pain is better?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Thanks entirely to you, my bright.”

_ Bright, but not heart. They had pet names, and so do we. Of a sort. _

“I live only to serve you, Lord Mal.”

The Force blackened suddenly, with the abruptness of an ion storm, coalescing around Malak like an almost visible cloud. But he didn’t move.

Sheris’s heart beat faster, but she met his gaze, steady and cool. Just like  _ she _ would have.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said after a pause. “I need one sentient who will never lie to me.”

_ Everyone lies, my lord. Even you.  _ There was something he was holding back. Sheris could sense it. Something about Taris.  _ Whatever it is doesn’t matter, because Bastila Shan is dead from the rakghouls and there are other worlds to conquer. _

“I love you, Malak,” Sheris whispered. That, at least, was no lie.

XXX

“We coulda spliced in some normal id-sigs!” Mission Vao looked genuinely upset as the Twi’lek woman Zaerdra fed the idchips they’d scavenged from the dead Sith into the galley incinerator like last week’s leftovers.

“Some things are too hot,” Gadon chuckled, and the three-meter-tall Wookiee next to him roared softly as if he was echoing an agreement.

If he’d roared loudly, Carth figured that would have been an objection.

“Mission, those chips belonged to dark operatives,” Zaerdra added. “Eli the Chiss reported directly to Malak’s Dark Jedi—the others probably do too. There’s no way we could crack the codes and use their ids—and even keeping them around is risky.” She glanced at Gadon. “Might be worth shifting bases.”

The bald Human snorted. “Now who’s paranoid, love?”

“We’re the Hidden Beks for a reason,” she said grimly. “We need to keep these three out of sight—at least until those Imperial ships leave orbit.”

“But I was gonna race—” Mission’s voice had that indignant whine that was painfully familiar.

xxx

_ “But I was gonna race, Dad! It’s not fair!” _

_ “There’ll be other races, son. You can still—you can still go. I just won’t be there. But your mom… bet she’ll record the whole thing—” _

_ “Right.” Those dark eyes were hers. Like gold in rich, Telosian soil. He’d grown another five centimeters in the two months Carth had been gone, and now those eyes were nearly level with Carth’s own. “Sure, Dad. Unless you die or something—” _

_ XXX _

Carth took a deep breath.  _ This is just another kid. Planet’s full of kids. You need to focus on keeping them _ all _ safe. Not just one. There’s a chance to save Bastila—and there are other survivors— _

“It’s okay, Mission. It’ll be okay,” Carth muttered out loud. “Easy come, easy go.” His arm still ached through the kolto bandage, but it would heal. And he’d started to breathe easier, once Zaerdra and this Gadon guy had confirmed that their rival gang, the Black Vulkars, really did have some Republic prisoners. Four, to be exact. Vulkars had sent holos as proof—proof that Carth cajoled Zaerdra into letting him see.

The Black Vulkars had sent holos of Lieutenant Jara Sang, Padawan Elias T’chong, a Duros Carth thought he’d seen in engineering (named Pan, he was pretty sure), and Padawan Bastila Shan, the Hope of the Republic. All were strapped down on what looked like medix beds. All had their eyes closed, and portable monitors showing their life signs and the date. 

They all looked unconscious.

_ They all could be faked. They all could have been killed right after the Vulkars snapped those holos. _

Bastila Shan’s image was dated from yesterday.  _ Jedi Bastila Shan. Alive. And  _ not _ with the Sith.  _

Carth had let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he saw her.

_ Polla Organa lied. Or she was wrong. Or she just didn’t know—? Why would I believe anything she said? Any cocked-up rumor she picked up from some Mando’ade merc in a bar in the first place? _

_ This could all be a trap. _

Wasn’t the first time he’d wondered. Things here seemed a lot like they’d been in Chiras City when he’d been a kid in the Skyjammers. Gangs that worked with the Sec forces on Taris ended up jailed by the same.  _ Only the Sith wouldn’t throw them in stir. They’d just shoot them.  _

Whichever gang took the risk of turning these prisoners in for the reward would be either stupid, well-connected, or  _ Sith _ themselves.

_ But I don’t have another option.  _

The prisoners all appeared to be unconscious, but they didn't look dead. Carth hoped. He  _ hoped. _

_ So, we—I’ve—got to rescue them. Get us all off this rock. Fight the blasted Sith here if we can’t.  _

_ Get Bastila away from the Sith at all costs. _

_ Avoid Sith-collaborating smugglers at all costs— _

“We are not so safe, if the Sith have Mission and Zaalbar on vid shooting at their own.” Zaerdra sounded tired. “If there was a way past the blockade, I’d send you off-planet myself, Vao. Your brother—”

“Not a word about kriffing Griff! I don’t need him! Or you, or anyone!” The girl crossed her arms and glared at them all.

The Wookiee bared his teeth and whined, almost questioningly, and the girl shook her head.

“No way, Big Z. They’re just scared. We killed those guys pretty easy, right? We can do more.”

“Mission  _ killed  _ them?” Gadon’s head turned. His eyes were milky white orbs, but there was a tracery of silver around them that suggested cybernetic implants. Whatever it was, the man could obviously see something—blast, maybe even see better than Carth himself.

“She laid down suppressing fire,” Carth comforted him, if that was comfort. From the way the kid handled a blaster, she’d done her share of shooting at live targets before too, but it was none of his business.

_ Not my world, not my problem. Just like that blasted Deralian Imperial spy— _

_ Or smuggler with a head injury that you abandoned to some Sith trap. _

“Sith patrols usually carry rakghoul serum,” Zaerdra interrupted. “Some sents are immune after one dose, but a lot aren’t. If you had some of that, Captain Onasi, maybe then we’d let you download our schematics of the tunnels—places where Sith patrols don't go.”

“I don’t,” he snapped.

“His crazy girlfriend took it all,” Mission added. “Five doses. Did I tell you about her? She took out Dia and some other guy even before Big Z ripped off the arms of that Trandoshan.”

“Good job, Big Z.” Gadon smiled.

The Wookiee roared.

“She’s not…” Carth's voice trailed off. “She was working with them. Maybe. I-I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

“She was nice,” Mission chirped in. “Just crazy. She gave me this rifle.”

Zaerdra eyed her. “You’re not keeping that. It goes in the arsenal with the rest.”

“No way! It’s mine!” The girl took a step back, voice rising to an indignant squawk.

“Bring us a set of armor from one of the Imperial patrollers.” Gadon ignored the squabbling Twi’leks, resting his hand on Carth’s arm with precision that proved he was seeing something. “Sith armor. It has the idchips programmed in, but they’re generic. That, we can use—even some non-Humans can use—to go easily between levels, access the Imperial’s offices, their factories. Bring us a set of armor, and we’ll even sponsor you in the race. You’ll have to run against our racers too, of course; but if you win, we’ll back your claim to collect those prisoners.”

Pride made Carth want to think he could win, but it had been a long time since the old days in Chiras City and Thani; and flying a snub or a bird was nothing at all like riding a swoop bike. The Beks had two jockeys on deck already, he’d been told. “With your racers plus me, we’d have triple the chance of winning,” he argued. “And you’d get the help of the Republic after. That’s… that’s worth a lot more than whatever reward the Sith are offering.”

“What makes you think we  _ want _ the help of the Republic?” Zaerdra’s lekku twisted around her finger. That probably meant something to Twi’leks because Mission started giggling.

“I’ve got training. And the others do too.” He didn’t want to mention Bastila Shan by name. “We could help you fight the occupation of your planet. Send a flotilla to break the blockade. Smuggle in medical supplies. More kolto!”

Gadon coughed. “The help of the Republic?” He jerked his head towards the wall behind him. It was covered in framed holos—most with black rims around the edges. It took Carth a second before he saw the one Gadon must’ve wanted him to see: what looked like a much younger Gadon, surrounded by six hooded figures. All were smiling, and each one had a lightsaber on their belt. “We had that once. Republic Mercy Corps.” the old gangster looked grim. “You can see how  _ that _ worked out.”

XXX

One advantage of possessing poor impulse control was that your fellow Sith always expected you to be rash. Davad only had to run out of the gates before wrapping the Force around his presence like a shield, vanishing from sight.

The remaining rakghouls scattered, proving more sentience than he’d expected. The fool villagers were not as fortunate, as three had emerged from their hiding place like cannock cubs when he crossed through the gates again. They were all scratched and bleeding, and none saw the blade that ended their lives. 

The fourth villager he saw—a bald child—ran away squeaking at Davad’s approach. Since the lad was clever enough to run toward the elevator and the possibility of escape in the levels above, Davad did not pursue him. 

But the child dropped something, and Davad levitated it into his hand, absently, still cloaked in the shadows his master had taught.

A used vial, traces of precious serum still clinging to the sides.

_ Where did a wretch like that boy get rakghoul serum? _

The surge of anger at the waste was momentarily sweet and distracting, but Davad did not forget his purpose.

Beya’s presence, now that his mind had affixed to it, was as clear as her scent in the air: emanating from a small hut, tucked in the curve of the wall. Revan’s presence was a whisper there too—foreign and barely visible in the Force: merely the throb of a fast-beating heart, the murmur of confusion.

Her voice, still slurred with the Deralian accent, harsh on his ears.

“I only killed two of them! T-the others, Carth and the Wookiee and that kid—they killed the other ones—”

“Only two. How?”

“H-how?”

“How did you kill them?”

“I-I don’t—the woman—she just died. I didn’t—”

“How?”

“Necks. Their necks were broken. I must have—maybe they fell or—”

“You broke their necks? With your hands?”

“How the frack else would I—”

Revan’s voice had faltered as Davad slipped inside. In the moment it took for him to adjust his Force weaves to the new shadows, he fancied he saw Revan’s eyes focus and widen, but she gave no other reaction, and a heartbeat after, her gaze dropped back to the floor and he doubted that he had seen anything at all.

She sat in a corner of the crude dwelling, knees almost drawn to her chest, in the perfect post of subjugation. Beya sprawled lazily and unprotected on the other side of the room.

Davad could have ended either of them—or both—in the time it took one of them to draw another breath.

“I didn’t do it. I dunno what happened up there. M-maybe Carth, he coulda shot them. He’s a soldier with the Republic Fleet—”

“He’s a war hero.” Beya laughed. “There’s a song. I don’t suppose you ever had the mind for such things—even when you had a mind….” She was humming that song they’d heard on Ziost now.  _ ‘The Admiral’s Doom.’ _ Some revenge ballad against Karath. Davad did not concern himself with such petty conceits.

“He’s nice. Carth is… nice. He’s kind. And… h-he has a great ass. And… muscles. On his arms… his face gets all funny when I scare him. He’s kinda sensitive through. I don’t know what crawled up his beam—”

_ Is she toying with Beya? _ Davad would not react to the rest.

“Not my type, Pollie.” Beya leaned towards the other woman, hand extended. Her fingers brushed against Revan’s cheek and his former master merely blinked. “Any more than you are, kid. Fracking hells, you wouldn’t last a millisecond against our master; or even the least of us. You bend like a thisla sapling in a light rain. That damned Order turned your brains to sludge—”

“Order?” Revan nodded, but the blankness in her face was chilling. “Right. We need to get everything in order down here and then maybe we’ll go see Doc Dodonna—”

“What?”

_ Dodonna? _

“Forn. I-I mean Forn.” 

“Sludge,” Beya muttered. “I could make you jump off a plat and you’d call me cousin and cry. No power left. You’re not even a threat to  _ her.  _ Not like this.”

_ Forn Dodonna?  _ Admiral Forn Dodonna was not a name a smuggler would recall so readily.

_ XXX _

_ It had been a week since the  _ Aleema _ had been taken by Republic forces, a week since Revan’s death. A week of sitting in isolation on a capital ship’s brig, deafened to the Force and chained like an animal. _

_ A week since he had demanded trial in an Onderonite court, and a jury of his peers. _

_ “Diplomatic immunity,” Davad repeated flatly, keeping his head high. The neural band at his temples throbbed. Without the Force and in chains, he felt like a beast bound—but not for long. “Did my cousins send the request?” _

_ “They did.” Admiral Dodonna turned to face him. “But as long as you and your fellow prisoners are on  _ my _ ship, you will be treated as the traitors you are.” Her gaze was as flat and cold as dear old Rev’s. Not for the first time, Davad thought the admiral would have made a fine Sith Lord, had she possessed any power at all. “And you are traitors, Knight Arkan. Make no mistake—” _

_ Davad feigned unconcern with a yawn. “It’s Lord, actually. Lord Arkan. Or, Darth—if you would like to give my station full recognition….” _

_ Forn Dodonna had a handsome, almost feral face. There was more gray in the hair peeking out from under her admiral’s cap than Davad remembered. And her proud mouth twisted, lips curling back from her teeth in a fashion that would have made prey retreat—had Davad been meat, instead of a hunter himself. _

_ “I would give you a public execution,” she snapped. “You and all your fellow traitors. But the senators—” _

_ “They took  _ you _ back after Malachor,” he pointed out, smiling. “Are we so different?” _

_ XXX _

_ Admiral Forn Dodonna. Revan remembers  _ her,  _ but not me?  _ The idea was beyond galling, but it could mean…. _ Is there something left? _

Davad took a step closer, still cloaked in shadows, to the right of Beya. Across from them, in the corner of the hut, the steady beat of Revan’s heart… faltered abruptly.

“You won't feel any pain.” Beya’s eyes were luminous, her voice gentle. It had been years since he’d heard her sound so soft. “I can do that much.”

Her fingers moved, and Davad watched Revan’s eyes flutter closed, her breathing slow—Davad felt her fragile spark weaken—

“Won't feel….” Revan’s dull head drooped, a flower on a broken stem. 

_ No!  _ Rage swelled at the thought of a threat to her: rage, discounting all reason. Bloodlust surged within him, its strength a cloud—burning—sharp as hunger, as release—

Across from them, Revan’s head jerked up abruptly, those perfect leaf-eyes widening, and for a moment… he felt…  _ something.  _ A jolt of power, of promise, as those eyes locked with his. Recognition? Hope?  _ Something of you left in that damned Jedi-made shell? _

“Beya!” Revan cried out as Davad revealed himself to her, slipping fully out of the shadows to stand before them. 

But the woman he had sworn to die for yelped and reached for Beya’s hand. Reached for Beya; for protection and comfort. Revan reached for  _ Beya; _ who had been about to end her life but a moment ago.

“Careful,” he choked. A warning for both of them. He would end Beya Organa in this moment, if not for the expression on Revan’s face now. She trusted the woman she thought was her cousin. Beya seemed to exert some influence over her; where Davad’s attempts were met only with a shield wall.

“Y-you!” Instead of looking grateful to see him, Revan scrambled to her feet, pressing her back into the wall. Her fear was thick and heavy between them, almost a living thing in the Force.

_ The Force. It’s there. Some part of her remains—she spoke of Forn— _

“I won’t let him hurt you, Pollie.” Beya stood too, inserting herself between them, her voice dripping with false sincerity.

“We may need to rethink our alliance, Lady Organa.” Davad summoned more of his power, frustration fueling his strength. He had a moment of satisfaction at her indrawn breath.

“I was testing her defenses,” Beya murmured, taking one step back. “I’ve met nulls with better shields than she has. You will have to keep her well-hidden… or, how  _ will _ you explain this to dear old Mal? Do you think he’ll let you just keep her? Like some of pet?”

“Who are you talking about?” Revan slipped around Beya, edging towards the door. “Listen… I think… I should… I should be going.”

**“Wait!”** Davad put the edge of a Force command behind it, but his old lover didn’t pause.

Revan was halfway out the door when Beya caught her by the arm.  **“Wait, Pollie.”**

“Beya.” She blinked. “I’m free. Frack off!”

**“Sit down again.”** Her words were syrupy, thick with command, but this time Polla Organa only blinked.

“Why the frack should I? Your friend’s a fracking murderer!”

“Only for you,” Davad muttered, half under his breath.

“That excuse died years ago, Arkan.” Beya chuckled. “Rev may have shown us the light, but what happened after that—”

“I’m leaving,” Revan said. “Both of you  _ Sith scum assholes  _ can frack off.”

XXX

_ “I’m leaving,” Davad said, not trying to hide the smugness in his voice. “Unless the Republic wants war with Onderon and its allies, you won’t stop me.” _

_ “It’s a war your planet would not win,” Forn said. _

_ “Not alone.” Although that would be glorious. “But with the might of Malak’s forces behind us—” _

_ “If your claim is that Onderon is a Sith ally, you become a prisoner of war.” Form smiled grimly, like her words meant anything at all— _

_ “Admiral Dodonna....” Masters Kae and Kavar arrived together at so precise a right moment, Davad assumed it was timed. It was Kavar who spoke, but Davad knew who held the reins. _

_ “Admiral Dodonna, the Jedi Council will take command of this prisoner now.” _

_ The warrior whipped her head around to glare at them both. “The Senate approved another petition?” _

_ “Senator Phin was most persuasive on our behalf….” Kae murmured. _

_ XXX _

“You're letting her go?” Beya’s voice was too mild, as he kept her from following, blocking the door and fingering the scrap of black cloth he had ripped from Revan’s coat. “Again?”

“She needs assistance,” he snapped. “You offer her death. Where is your true loyalty, Organa? You need to decide.”

Beya’s jaw set, and her stance shifted, became aggressive. “Oh,” she murmured. “I have.”

_ Xxx _

Polla refused to freak out. Something felt hot in her guts, like her terror had its own weight. She fumbled for the stun stick in her pocket—only to find it not there.

_ Dropped it. I don't remember where—maybe back at the bar? I dropped it. _

Behind her, she heard the two Sith arguing again, probably about how to kill her.

_ So, Cousin Beya is a Sith. Lots of sents are Sith. Walk away slowly. You saved her life with that rakghoul serum? She should be grateful— _

The second Polla’s feet hit the sands outside, she burst into a sprint for the gate.

Xxx

“You were going to kill her,” Davad said accusingly. “If I hadn't intervened—”

“She's getting away.” Now, he was blocking the door.

“She won't go far.” But his head turned and in that instant, Beya’s blade whipped out and arced towards his ribs.

Not a killing strike, but it would have paralyzed him, if the Onderonite hadn’t been inhumanly fast with his defense. His blade locked with hers, and then he began to use his superior strength, forcing her own saber back. Beya deactivated her own weapon and ducked in one smooth movement—leaving him swinging at thin air—as she delivered a thrust from behind that would have severed his leg, had his own blade not suddenly been there to block—

“Hah.” His yellow eyes narrowed. Those abominable dimples of his flashed as his mouth curved up.

In that instant, Beya forgot about Revan completely. In that instant, she merely wanted Davad Arkan dead.  _ Hate makes me strong—strength fuels my passions— _

In the next instant, Davad’s commlink chimed. Three long tones.

“Hells,” the man muttered. He stepped backwards, and she lunged. Their sabers clashed again, but now hers held the higher plane. Davad was obviously rattled, glaring at his wrist.

Beya couldn't help but smile. 

_ Lord Malak calls. And you're his pet drexl, Beast-lord.  _

Even the thought that Davad might be foolhardy enough not to answer, thus triggering the explosive chip set in the device, did not dampen her glee at seeing the Onderonite so easily cowed.

His brow furrowed as he activated the audio with the Force. “Yes, my lord?”

If the weight of Arkan's power hadn't required her full attention, Beya would have found his cringing amusing. The blue light around them as Malak triggered the visual override again was less funny. The fact that Lord Malak could activate the camera in Davad’s comm—but not hers—seemed to indicate the two had not entirely resolved their issues of trust.

Darth Malak’s voder clicked. Light glinted on his metal jaw, and his mad eyes narrowed, taking them in.  **“How fortunate I am, finding you still together.”**

“Beya asked for a sparring lesson, my lord.” Arkan parried, but Beya slid her own blade back, bringing both her hands together on the hilt, and then suddenly executing an upthrust with the Force and her own strength. Arkan’s hilt knocked from his hand—

But before she could call his weapon to her own grasp, he called it back again, flipping the blade up in an unexpected riposte.

_ He's better at this than he pretends. _

**“Stop,”** Malak ordered them. **“Now. I have need of you.”**

“Lord Malak.” Beya froze immediately, bowing her head, clipping her quickly-deactivated weapon to her belt.

Davad was slower, face still lifted in an ugly sneer as he deactivated his blade. Hard to tell if the expression was meant for her or dear old Mal. “Yes?”

**“The Tarisian Security Force has just informed me of an incident that my two most loyal and trusted Sith Lords did not bother to mention.”** Malak paused, just enough to make his threat clear.  **“An incident in an Undercity bar involving Lord Beya Organa’s operatives? I assume you are aware? When last we spoke, I was told you were both on your way to investigate a presumed sighting. Not a** **_confirmed_ ** **one.”**

It was probably her imagination that made Beya think their master’s Sith-damned eyes were boring a hole through her chest, but all she could do was smile.

“I was on my way there,” she murmured. “But then, Lord Arkan decided to settle an old score.”

**“So I see.”** Malak paused.  **“I assume you know that the incident involved a black-haired Deralian with my consort’s face? I assume you know the location of this Javyar’s Cantina has not changed since we last spoke?”**

_ Brown hair, really. The color mine was.  _ Beya was vain enough to dye hers now.

“We have just acquired the rakghoul serum, my lord, and restored ourselves,” Davad broke in. “But I will not trouble Beya, should she wish to go to another bar instead. I will go retrieve your wife.”

**“My wife is no longer in this cantina. Her whereabouts are unknown. But you will** **_both_ ** **go there now and question every sentient in the sector.”** That metallic voice deepened, shifting into a cold fury they both knew better than to ignore. **“Go immediately. This is no time for games. If one of you dies, the other will also at my hand. If you do not recover my wife—”**

“We know,” Davad interrupted, with more arrogance than Beya thought he would have dared use in the same room as their old chum. “We have all been Sith for some years now, Malak.”

**“You are** ** _nothing,”_** their master breathed, rasp of his voder increasing with his agitation. **“You draw breath only through my will. If you attempt to deceive me again—”**

“Did you want Revan alive or dead?” Beya interrupted.

**“We reached an accord on that score when you betrayed her on the** ** _Aleema,”_** Malak’s voder crackled over the comm. The sound could have been laughter or rage. When he got like this, it was good to have an atmosphere and several thousand kilometers of space between them.. **“Has that changed, Beya? Do you now want our Revvie alive?”**

“No.”  _ I don’t know.  _ But Sith had no time for reflection.  _ Better her than me. _

Davad didn't move. He had known about the  _ Aleema _ —Beya still remembered the burning grip of his hand nearly breaking her wrist when she let the transceiver she’d used to comm Malak fall onto the bomb-blasted floor—but hearing Malak confirm her betrayal  _ had _ to sting.

**“I want you to end her in person,”** their mad Sith Leader added.  **“For me. With your saber. Through her heart. And, if she truly does not know who she is, you are to tell her before she dies. Record the response. I want to see.”**

“Do you have a preference as to which one of us should… have that honor?” Oh, but Beya was twisting the blade in deep now. She could see it in Arkan’s expression. If she dared look directly at the comm, she suspected she'd see the same expression on Malak’s face as well.

_ For all your talk, Mal. For all of your power. For all that she did to you. For all that you have Sheris… you still call Revan your  _ **_wife._ **

**“Lord Arkan will perform the act,”** Malak rasped. **“But if he is too slow, you may intervene, Lord Organa.”**

“No doubt Lord Arkan is quite capable of performing the act.” Beya let her lips twitch.

_ I will force you to keep your word and challenge Malak, or I will break you, Davad.  _

_ Her death would break you. _

“And the body?” The Beast-lord stared at Beya with the fury of all nine Corellian hells. Staring at Beya, but speaking to Malak. “My lord, do you wish to see—”

**“A recording and a lock of her hair will suffice.”**

_Still squeamish, Mal? Not_ _even a hand?_ Beya would not allow herself a true smile, but her smirk widened.

“My Lord Malak, will you give our regards to Lady Sheris?” Davad’s voice reminded Beya of a coiled spring, stretched near breaking. “Beya was just telling me how  _ close _ she and Sheris have become.”

Oh, Beya would end him for that. But if he could only end Malak first—

“I've been teaching your consort  _ ryss,”  _ Beya stared the Dark Lord of the Sith straight-on—at least through the commlink. “You and I and Vik used to play, Mal. Do you remember?”

“The assignment on Felucia?” His brow furrowed as if he was actually trying to remember.  _ Men. _

“Dagmar.” Girlish confidences had their advantages. “Davad and  _ Revan  _ were assigned guard of that slaver’s base near the lake while the rest of us were stuck on that interminable ranger’s station with the rescued children.” She laughed softly.  _ Both of you, so predictable.  _ “Rev told me later that all they did there was loll around half-clothed in the water—”

From the corner of her eye, Beya saw the Onderonite’s mouth twitch.

**“You have five days to kill my wife,”** Malak’s voder crackled again, lacing his words with the fury of tombs.  **“Fail in your efforts and I will bomb this ecumenopolis from orbit—with both of you still languishing in its depths.”**

_ Xxx _

_ “Hey!”  _ The bald kid Polla had helped earlier was curled in the shadow of a crate near the lift. “Don’t come any closer!”

“It’s me,” she said, trying not to look back to see if those assholes were following. “Remember? Serum Lady? Are you feeling better?”

He looked better.

“You gonna torture me now?” His face was a combination of terrified and fierce, like an unbroke hessi colt back home. 

_ Wish I was there. I should call Ma— _

“I’m one of the good guys.” She would not look back.

“You’re dressed like them.” He pointed at her coat. “Black robes, like them.”

“This thing? I stole it.”  _ They could be sneaking up on me right now.  _ “Look, kid. You need to run. Those two Sith are trouble.”

“But this was the  _ safe  _ place!” His nose was running. Kid couldn't be more than ten. “My sister Malya went out to look for dumb old Wrinkle-Skin’s maps or something. She told me to wait here.” 

_ She’s probably dead. Old Wrinkle-Skin too.  _ Polla swallowed hard.  _ Poor kid. Frack, when I was ten, I had Dancer and that trip to Alderaan with Ma and Da and school and swoop training— _

_ This kid has dirt. Nothing. _

“Here.” She pulled out a handful of credits and one of the serum vials. “Take these and take the elevator up, okay? Rent a flat someplace. Give that vial to Doc Forn Dodonna. I think he’s paying plenty. Ask him to set you up—seems like a nice guy….” Her voice trailed off. “Tell him Polla Organa says hi too. Tell him my head feels a lot better.”

It did. In the middle of all this banthashit, Polla suddenly realized she actually felt fine.

“We are the Outcasts of Taris! We are forbidden to go into the Upper City—”

“Kid, I just came down here in that elevator. What goes down, goes up. There's no one to stop you.”

But there was a… a bad feeling, like an itch on Polla’s shoulder blades.  _ That gate needs to be fixed to keep the rakghouls out. I need to find someone to fix that gate. _

“You come too?” His eyes were wide, almost colorless in this light. His hair was shaved to the scalp, his clothing filthy with grime.

“I will. But you go first.”  _ Those Sith are after me. I need to run. _

“Doc Forn Donna.”

“Something like that.” She nodded. “Go on. Shoo!”

Polla didn't wait to see if he listened or not. Despite every nerve telling her she was running the wrong way, she ran out onto the sands.

It was the direction away from the evil Sith.

XXX

“Big Z!” Mission had appeared in the cafeteria just as Zaalbar was finally settling down to lunch. Roast vat-meat wasn't his first choice, but it was better than the grubs that grew in the sewers that the locals of this planet called  _ steak.  _ “C’mon!” his chirpy cub said. “That guy just left! We need to trail him, make sure he doesn't die. Okay?”

“Zaerdra and Gadon asked us to do this?”

“Yes,” Mission swore, round-eyed and not blinking. He suspected she was lying, but then, if the man did die, the weight of his soul would be on Zaalbar’s back like a rotten tree branch.

“I follow,” he growled formally.

XXX

_ Shouldn't have left her, Onasi. _

_ She told me to leave her. _

_ Polla Organa knew Mandalorian. She knew Sith operatives—or they knew her. Cousin, my ass. She could be one of them. One of them that got tortured and rescued by Jedi— _

Maybe she didn't know. He'd heard of such things. The Sith were certainly capable of worse. Polla Organa could have been in deep cover as a Republic operative, or-or brainwashed, or just flat-out insane—or lying. It all could be an act.

_ But you don’t buy that. Your gut says you just let a woman who barely knew what year it is go meet someone who claimed to be her Sith cousin in the Undercity of Taris. Alone. _

Carth knew it was bad when his conscience started arguing with itself. Didn't help that the Twi’lek kid seemed to think the best way for them to win this swoop race was to steal a piece of lousy, illegal tech from a rival gang’s base. Now, she was trailing along behind him as he walked back the direction they’d came, followed by her Wookiee. Who was groaning his protests every fifteen seconds or so. 

“Hold your speeder,” Carth told the kid. “First, I'm gonna go get my partner. Then, that armor for your boss.”  _ Look for Polla. Stupid, Onasi. Stupid. What are you gonna do if you find her? Or the Sith? How is  _ she _ gonna help Bastila, or Lieutenant Sang, or any of them? _

“Gadon’s  _ not _ my boss,” the kid muttered.

“Okay, okay.” He glanced back at her, grinning. “Fine. Not your boss. Your… good buddy, who runs a gang. You know, when I was a kid, I ran with a swoop gang on Tel-Telos.” 

“Telos? Wow.” There was a long pause, followed by a low growl from the Wookiee.

“Zaalbar says that’s pretty harsh. What happened.” 

“Yeah,” Carth muttered. “It was. But we go on, right?” Maybe Polla Organa was bad news. Carth still didn't like to think of her dead.

“You want to meet that girl with the weird head fur again, huh?” Mission sighed. “Bet  _ she'd  _ help me steal the hyper accelerator!”

“I'm sure she would.” Carth realized he was smiling and stopped, because…  _ Telos. What the hell do I have to smile about after that? _ “Look… I'll… I'll be back, okay? I promise I’ll come back to check on you.”

“I'll tell Zaerdra you’re coming back!” Mission beamed up at him, suddenly placated. “You seem like an old geezer to me, but I think she likes you. I mean, she’s kinda with Gadon right now? But I think you’d really have a shot.”

“That’s… uh, nice. It’s good. Good.” Carth ducked his head and hightailed it to the door.

Xxx

The dead monsters were everywhere, chopped to pieces and fried on the sand.

_ That Sith. He did this. Davad. He said his name. Why was he acting like that? What was he doing to Beya— _

“Freeze!” 

Polla looked around to see who was yelling.

“Don't move!”

About twenty meters out on the plain she saw a flash of blue-white light stamped in that distinctive hexagonal shape that made identifying its origin a no-brainer. _Shield barricade._ _Aratech Ninety-five plex. Will stand up to anything physical... but a decent plasma or disruptor could melt right through it._

_ Sith don’t have plasma disruptors. Are their laser swords plasma?  _

Polla waved her hand. “Hey! You! Help!” she ran toward the two Humans behind the shield. They hadn't shot yet, so maybe they weren't going to. Sith might be assholes, but they wouldn't be here to execute civilians….

_ Unless they’re like those crazy Dark Jedi Sith back there.  _

Close up, she saw the logo on their speeder: the Taris sun, bisected by its skyline. _ Phew. TarSec, they’re just Tarsec— _

“I said, don't move!” The voice was male.

“Call in backup, Private,” the other one said. “See the black robes? How she’s coming at us? Do not fracking engage—”

“Hey!” Polla was on top of them now.  _ “Hey!  _ That gate over there! It's broken. You guys need to fix it!”

“Uh….” The one talking to her, had eyes like a partrigg, round and black. The other soldier was female, with a cap of reddish hair. She had on goggles, and a head piece and was signaling frantically at her companion. “Y-yes. Right away, my lady.”

“Uh….” The guy looked at the woman, looking like a trapped hessi himself. “This is out of my pay grade. Nessa?” He looked up at Polla still crouched behind his shield. “Sorry, my lord, but we need to call that in.”

“Sith here wants us to fix the gate,” Nessa muttered into her comm. She glanced back at Polla and then away fast. “No, I don’t know which one. But she’s got black robes and she just  _ ran _ at us. You know how they run.”

“I’m n—”  _ What the hell.  _ “That’s right,” Polla hissed, doing her best impression of her now-evil cousin. “Fix the gate immediately, or I’ll chop you to pieces and then I’ll choke the pieces. With my Force magic.”

**“Gate’s down? In the Outcast sector?”** Whoever on the other end sounded horrified. **“You know what kind of a mess it’ll be if the rakghouls get loose? Fix it!”**

“Uh… you need to come back with us, my lady. It’s not safe here.” Nessa glanced up at Polla. Nessa still looked terrified. 

_ My lady? Well, that's fracking fancy!  _ “I can't.” That weird feeling. “Hey, I think there are these Sith Jedi after me? Can you… tell them I went that way?” She pointed at random, deciding at that moment to go in another direction.

_ Not opposite. That's too obvious. _

Her boot kicked at something in the sand. She picked it up. Another piece of half-rusted durasteel. One end was kind of pointed. Almost like a spear. 

_ Huh.  _ Polla gave it a twirl to check the balance.

One of the security officers made a whimpering noise. The man.

“We're just TarSec,” the woman whispered. “We can’t—we don’t usually even s-speak to… you….”

_ Run. _

That voice in her head. Polla felt like her nerves were on fire. For a moment, the plain seemed… brighter than before, the air thicker, as if everything was… _ there. _

“Is there another lift out?” What were they so afraid of? Wasn't like she had one of those laser swords.

“W-west wall.” The man nodded. “About a klick.”

Polla’s eyes lit upon their speeder. “Look, I know this sounds nuts, but… you need to get that gate fixed _now._ Fast. Okay? I… command it. I order you.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” They looked as terrified as Polla felt. 

_ Fools. The weak-minded are so easy to fool. _

The TarSec guards left, taking off at a dead run toward the gate. Maybe they could… weld the pieces together. Or just guard it. Speaking of that, it was kind of fracked that here was this planet with this horrible mutating monster-virus, and no one was doing anything about it. 

_ Taris is fracked. Run. You need to run. _

_ Frack that, I need to drive.  _

There was another lift, another access point to the above—all Polla needed to do was find it. She started toward the TarSec land speeder, fingering a cred chip in her pocket—

Xxx

_ “Most of these Querith models have biometric keys.” Therion leaned against the speeder in question outside the seedy bar on the Smuggler’s Moon. He pulled out an all-kit spanner from the loop on his boot and set to jimmying open the steering column. “So, what you gotta do is hotwire the engine below the secfeeds. Give it some noise so it doesn't go into auto-shutdown, or trigger a silent alarm—” _

_ Polla sighed, watching him work. “Where'd you learn this stuff?” _

_ “Finishing school.” He winked, in that way she had once found so hot, and put a credchip on the top of the engine’s main battery relay. “Allusteel reacts with the lithoid salts, hitches up the current to the main motor. Stand back. She’s gonna spark _ —”

_ Xxx _

Polla had no all-kit, but the metal bar she'd picked up worked okay to bash the whole column in. The plasteel around the column crumped up like paper, actually. Cheap, Querist piece of shit.

She shoved the credit on top of the ignition plate, praying to the Grass Priests for a miracle.

Engine kicked in fast—and then, hyperdrive. Or, at least a good click. Out and away—

_ Blasted speeder steers like a fat hessi,  _ Polla thought, trying to steer the fracking thing.

Xxx

It was cozy in their hide-out in the ceiling above  _ Javyar’s Cantina _ . No Hidden Beks. Definitely no Vulkars. Just the way Mission liked it.

The old guy who thought he was some kind of swoop ace had stormed off to go rescue the crazy bint. Mission and Big Z had trailed him far as their base and then split, because if a mark wants to get themselves killed, what's the point of playing?

But something about that whole deal was still bugging Mission, and it had only been like three minutes.

“If that loser really wants to win the race, he shoulda come with me to steal that accelerator,” she grumbled to Zee.

[“Mission, you need to store that stack of permacrete explosive you took from Gadon’s armory properly,”] her big pal groaned back. [“I should not have to remind you what happened to our last hide-out.”]

“Shhh.” The tell-tale chime of a TarSec alert pinged on their screens.  _ Ding dong. _

**“Today’s All-Points Bulletin for Republic terrorists and enemies of the City-State has been issued. All citizens should be on the alert for the following individuals: Republic Captain Carth Onasi, Republic Captain Jo Imrao, Gang Leader Brezic Firkay, Gang Leader Gadon Thek, Gang Boss Calo Nord….”**

The all-points went on really boring-like. Mission wasn't on their stupid list, so she was only half-paying attention. She only liked to watch to see if she’d see her face. HoloNet always kept the Top Ten up on views for a while.

[“Mission, look!”]

Seeing that Human’s face on the screen made her do a double-take: face-fur around his mouth, that badass glare. Mission couldn’t see why Zaerdra might think he was cute. But those ancients had to stick together.

“His whole name is  _ Captain _ Carth Onasi?”  _ Now she remembered!  _ There was some kind of song about Captain Carth Onasi. Big on the Imperial Free Holobox they played in the cantina.

“Guess I should go warn him, Big Z? Bet he didn't get far. Those beggars in the Undercity don't let anyone past without a whole lot of talk. And begging. Stupid promise land story takes like, a year—”

[“No, Mission. You should not go after the wanted Republic Terrorist!”] Her pal put down his ronto haunch and bared his teeth in protest, but Mission knew the big guy was just kidding around.

“Relax!” she chided. “I've got the stealth belt and you, right? Who’s gonna mess with us?”

**“Imperial Traitor Yok Ree, Alien Lo-Yano, Imperial Traitor Bendak Starkiller, Crime lord Davik Kang ...and Republic Scout Polla Organa,”** the Bulletin whispered, still going down its roster; but Mission wasn’t paying attention. Once they got into the twenties it got boring anyway.

“Let's go!” Mission didn't bother to look back, just opened the duct panel and squeezed through the narrow bit above the ladies’ fresher, ignoring Zaalbar’s barks behind her. Big guy’d have to go around to the ladder, but he'd meet her down-ground. Just like always—

Xxx

“At least one of us needs to go to this cantina immediately.” Beya had moved past impatience, and was close to murderous rage. The braindead Revan could not have gotten far. 

It looked like some TarSec grunts were trying to repair the blasted-open gate with the broken pieces of it. The locals had re-emerged from their hidey-holes and seemed to be trying to sell them supplies.

Fascinating, how sentient life was the same the galaxy over. But right now, she had no  _ time. _

“Malak told us both to go.” Arkan was poised, like a kath sniffing the air. Beya wondered if he could  _ smell  _ Revan. The man was full of tricks.

But tricks were fragile, she mused, watching the locals. So easily dispelled in light.

And sentient life  _ ended  _ so easily, the galaxy over. Beya watched as another burrower, some dank Human, scurried over to the builders and began jabbering away at them. A heavy visor covered half the man’s face, probably to hide some horrible disease. As she watched, the new Human waved his hands at the builders, and then went through the gates himself—no doubt in an attempt to feed a starving family or find hope of the pathetic Promised Land that these sentients were always going on and on about—

“It’s the Yu-Phaedra Gambit,” Davad said, squinting at the industrious Tarisian scum. “We can lose the sector or lose the entire system. No way to win.”

“Except by killing Malak,” she pointed out sweetly. The idea had seemed half a joke, an illusion, but the more Beya considered, the more weight it gained. “That's what Revan would say.”

“What she did say,” he muttered. “And then confided in you, not me.”

“We all make mistakes. May yours be less fatal.”

“The cantina,” he said. “And we should hurry. No doubt our Lord Malak already has some agent primed in waiting for us there.”

“Boo!” Beya hissed at a ragged little Twi’lek urchin.

The girl yelped and vanished, air rippling around the currents of her stealth generator, as she took off toward the gate, moving much too quickly for Beya to catch.

Arkan turned for a moment, nostrils flaring slightly. “Sensitive,” he remarked, but turned, walking the opposite way, toward the elevator.

Beya let him lead.

“So many of those wastrels are,” she noted. “The nulls rarely live long enough to grow. Are you recruiting Blades again?”

“Not that one.” He increased his pace. “She's not strong enough, even for culled.”

They reached the banks, nearly colliding with a three-meter high collection of tangled fur and fang. Seeing the beast, Davad made a low, rumbling noise in his throat.

Beya already had her saber out to dispatch it, but Davad’s hand slammed down hard on hers. “Hold,” he murmured. “Wookiees are excellent hunters. And immune to rakghoul poison.” He gave a series of harsh growls and barks, enough to give Beya a headache.

The Wookiee howled back, and Davad handed him a scrap of cloth.

The beast brought it to his lips and howled again.

Davad nodded. “And to you, Great Hunter.”

The walking carpet grasped the torn black cloth in his teeth, lumbering past, picking up impressive speed for a creature of its size.

“I haven't seen a Wookiee since Endor,” Beya mused. Wookiees were not common on this planet, but she had noted a few on her last survey. “He took compulsion quite well.”

“I did not need it.” Davad’s teeth were bared in a snarl that looked uncannily akin to the expression the beast had given them. She wondered if he realized. “That man was wise enough to recognize his master.”

“Man?” Beya scoffed.

Xxx

_ Monster. _

As a cub, the mothers had told all the fur-balls in the creche many cautionary tales designed to keep them all safe and out of harm. The one that had always given Zaalbar and his blood-kin Chuuundaar nightmares was the one about the Hunt-King. Such a beast was said to have once been a man—whether Wookiee, Human, Rodian, or even 'Doshan was never clear. But the beast had once been a man and now was no more a man. On that the mothers agreed.

Because he had a man’s hungers, the Hunt-King hunted for sport. Because he had a beast’s needs, the Hunt-King devoured his prey. According to legend, such a beast-man could only be stopped by the King of Death, and since no Wookiee wanted to die, his Grace rarely came to their forests.

Zaalbar knew that the man he had just met was not a creature of legend, or a monster from childhood stories. But still, cold fear froze his blood like sap in winter, and he ran away quick as he could—

—away from the scent that the Hunt-King had bade him find.

Whoever this Polla Organa was, she was no match for the monster. The scent on the cloth was  _ hers,  _ there was no mistaking—the smell of smoke and rain mixed with sweet, and something bitter and strange that had made his hackles rise even  _ before  _ he had seen her break the necks of their attackers as if they were merely dinner— _ hers _ —and she barely more than a cub herself.

Zaalbar would not risk her to the Hunt-King, who might be following his own more pungent scent even now.

But his whimper was a whine too, because the smell of roast pomato and lemma, sugar and that wax Mission used on her skin went along the same path as Polla Organa had: and if the woman was truly trouble, he knew only too well that his own cub would soon be enmeshed in it up to her t-chin and t’chun.

XXX

Carth kept his head down and the visor on his face firmly secured. He'd had it off in the corridor near the cantina when he'd seen the public holoterm start publishing the “Republic’s Most Wanted” list—with his own name prominently featured. He hadn't waited around to hear more—just pulled the visor he'd bought before out of his jacket and put it back on, keeping his head down, and keeping on going, following the signs that said “Undercity, Public Access.”

The elevator had opened just as he got there, discharging a little bald kid with a nasty bite on his leg.

An alarm dinged and blue light flickered over them both. The kid froze when the light hit him, every muscle stiff and terrified.

**“Negative scan,”** a machine’s voice chimed.  **“No signs of infection.”**

“Hey!” Carth called to him. “You okay?”

The kid stopped for a second, wide-eyed, and then dodged sideways, veering around Carth and taking off down the hall at a dead run.

“Okay, then.” Infection? That rakghoul thing? Carth frowned. He'd expected guards here, or something.

When the doors opened groundside, he began to see why the kid had looked so frightened. There were bodies everywhere. The unmistakable sign of lightsaber burns, and a boiled, electrical smell that suggested even worse.

_ None of them look like Polla. _

He thought, at least. One in the corner was burned so badly, it was hard to tell.

_ Jedi. Dark Jedi did this.  _ He had been a fool to leave her—you don't leave anyone behind, you never know if you’ll see them again when you do—

“—cantina—” a voice said sharply, from around the corner. Female voice.

“Malak told us both to go?” Another voice said. Male.The voice dipped to a low murmur.

_ Malak.  _ Hate seethed in Carth’s chest.  _ Malak can burn in all nine Corellian hells. Right along with Saul Karath.  _

When he rounded the corner, he saw two of them. Sith, wearing black robes. 

The woman’s gaze flickered over him as if Carth didn't exist.

_ Polla said her cousin was down here? Is that her cousin? That monster? She said her cousin used to be a Jedi and they all—they were all Jedi. Once. _

The man didn't react at all, but Carth caught the glimpse of yellow eyes, almost luminescent, peering out from under a dark hood.

_ Keep moving, Onasi. Past the black-robed, yellow-eyed monsters. Jedi once. They were heroes.  _

He’d met Jedi Knight Malak once. That bar on Reisu, the Althirian moon. The man had seemed normal. _ At first. _

Ahead, Carth saw the main gate to this complex. Looked like it had been blasted open from the outside. More bodies were here too. And a pack of workers, scrambling round with the pieces of the gate.

Two security officers were trying to repair the damage. One was holding what looked like one of those all-purposing tools sec forces used across the galaxy. The other started directing the sents around them to hold the plates up while they used a blaster to melt them shut. The work looked shoddy and makeshift; Carth doubted it would hold up to whatever broke through those doors in the first place.

There was still no sign of Polla, but now that he was safely past the Dark Jedi, he thought to ask.

“Hey,” he muttered to one of the guys stacking broken pieces of gate. “Happen to see a woman around here? Black coat? Brown hair tied on top her head?” He raised his hand to his mouth. “About this tall?”

“The crazy Sith?” The man looked around, almost furtive, and then spat in the dirt. “Yeah. She told us to repair the gate and then she ran right out into the wilderness—” He pointed towards the flat ground beyond the gate. “Good riddance.”

_ The crazy Sith. If that's not confirmation, Onasi, I don't know what is.  _ Carth's heart sank.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, wondering if he should turn back—or look a little longer.

The dead rakghouls fanned out in a ring around the gate. When Carth stepped through, he saw more—all cut into cauterized pieces. Carth had never seen a dark Jedi in action, but he'd been witness to their handiwork on Defalli and Rodia... and… and Telos, of course.

Xxx

_ The school was a smoldering ruin full of dead children. And every one of them looked like his son, any one of them could have been his son— _

_ Xxx _

_ If she’s Sith why am I looking for her?  _

But Carth’s feet set out across the sand anyway. Polla had been nothing like those monsters back there. Nothing at all. He—he had to believe that. He'd saved her, when so many others were gone. He had to at least  _ look. _

_ Look for what? This place is a wasteland, Onasi.  _

He moved toward the cover of the nearest wall, which stretched up as far as he could see: a tower of windowless, cracked duracrete and rusted metal. Something wet dribbled on his face and he wiped his eyes clear, trying hard not to think about what kind of effluent would be raining down from above. His boots scuffed on debris, and what looked like pieces of bone. 

_ Telos died quick, I guess. This place is rotting from the inside out.  _

“Psst. Hey!” A high voice chirped and something that felt like an elbow jabbed his arm. “Psst! Captain Carth Onasi? You know it's crazy out here, right?”

His blaster was in his other hand almost instantly, but there was nothing to see except a slight blur, like a cheap stealth field flickering around a small, slight form.

“Kid?” He'd been so far in his head it took Carth a sec to remember her name. “Mission?”

“Sssshhh, not so loud.” Invisible fingers grabbed his arm, dragging him off along the curve of the wall, toward a long, stacked structure that looked like the base of another platform. “Don't want to advertise I'm hanging out with a wanted guy. Did you know you're wanted by TarSec? What'd you guys  _ do?”  _ She paused. “What’re you  _ gonna  _ do? You gonna fight them? You catch a load of those two ronto-turds as we came in? Ugly!” She made a snorting noise, suddenly shimmering into visibility again, cheeky and grinning up at him. She had a blaster on her hip, and a bandolier of what looked like explosives strapped around her chest.

_ Is that what kids are wearing these days?  _ Carth felt sad—and angry.

“You know I'm Republic,” he admitted.

“Yeah, I heard you bragging to Gadon, but I didn't know you were  _ the  _ Captain Carth Onasi!” Mission’s teeth were pointed and small, which made her look younger when she smiled. “You know you're famous, right? That's probably why they all want you so bad. There's that song—”

“I know I—wait.” He frowned. “What song?”

“The one about Admiral Karath meeting his doom?” 

_ “What?”  _ He tamped down the automatic fury he always felt hearing Saul’s name.

She frowned at him. “You don't know it? Really?”

“I don't know it.” He pulled her into the shadow of the platform’s edge, out of sight of that gate—and anything else that might be lurking around. “Really.”

“It goes like this.” Mission started to hum. “‘La la di dah… something something…” Her blue brow ridge twitched expectantly. “No? Nothing?”

“No.” 

“La, la, the Admiral told him, turn… la la. Join us now, and man the bow, our planet I must burn?”

Carth exhaled slowly.  _ She’s a kid. She has no idea. Even in a rough place like this. It’s not… at least she’s alive. _

Mission giggled. “Seriously? Nothing? Not even a flash? It's catchy.”

“No.” He would not react. There was no point, not even the satisfaction that Saul must have seen— _ someone _ must have seen those messages Carth had started carving in the walls, in the ground, on the sides of ships, anywhere he could find... on every planet where the Republic was forced to retreat.

**I’M COMING FOR YOU, SAUL. FOR DUSTIL AND MORGANA.**

Carth had never signed them. He’d never had to. It had been just… just an outlet.

Hells, when Dodonna first assigned Carth to the Jedi Fleet he'd thought she was just trying to get him away from all that.

Xxx

_ “This mission is vital, Captain.,” It wasn't like Forn to hold back, and it raised Carth’s suspicions, when she didn’t follow that up with why. _

_ “Sure,” he'd joked, expecting to get a confidential report later, when they were in a room the Senate probably didn't bug. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I don't need to know. Send me anywhere—” _

_ “You’ll have to stop leaving messages for Saul,” she’d said, looking pointedly at him. One of her eyebrows raised. “You’ll be under direct  _ Jedi _ command, reporting to Bastila Shan herself.” _

This mission has something to do with Saul. She's trying to tell me.

_ That's what he'd thought at the time. _

_ That was  _ all  _ he’d thought at the time, while Forn filled the next hour with facts that didn’t matter. _

_ Accompany the Jedi to various sites of ancient ruins. Be a personal shuttle pilot and go groundside with Bastila Shan and her escort while the rest of the Jedi Fleet stays in orbit. _

_ Go on archeological digs with the only Jedi to have Battle Meditation since Nomi Sunrider, instead of having her  _ use _ it to help the Fleet win— _

_ Send your crack pilot and the most important Jedi since Nomi Sunrider on a wild ronto chase… for what? _

_ Xxx _

Aside from the Sith pulling them out of hyperspace, Carth had no idea how this mission had anything to do with Saul—it hadn’t been Saul’s ship that was latched onto the  _ Spire.  _ Had been some modified Republic capital from the war called the  _ Demon Moon _ . He’d never even heard of it, and he’d once prided himself on knowing the names of every ship above M-Class in the Fleet.

“Is it true you left a message for Admiral Karath on Dagiri Minor like twenty meters tall on a cliff-face?” The little Twi’lek was uncannily perceptive, dragging Carth back to the present, which is where he damn well needed to stay to keep them both alive.

“Yeah, I….” Carth turned to look at her, brain catching up with her words. “You're saying, there’s a song? About me in _ Sith  _ space?”

“Well, yeah.” Mission shrugged. “Weren't you listening? Want another verse?”

“I'm nobody.” He had to laugh. “Just a grunt.”

“You're in the Top Ten Wanted on Taris!” The girl sounded like that was a badge of pride. “You've been on the planet like, a day and you edged out Calo Nord! That's humongous!”

“We’ve been here a week. Little more.” That brought him back. “Listen, have you seen Polla? Know where she went? I’m… worried.”

“About the crazy lady? Why?” Mission shrugged, bending down to pick up a rock and skim it across the sand. “She's not in the Top Ten. Not even sure she made the list!” She glanced back. The gate was far out of sight now. “Hey… you know what's weird? Big Z ain't caught up yet. He never lets me get this far out here on my own. Hope he didn't run into some kind of trouble at the gate.”

Carth glanced back. The gate was out of view now, lost in a haze of bad. “I'm sure he’ll be fine,” he lied.

XXX

The TarSec speeder steered like a two-legged ronto, but it was still faster than walking. Polla drove blindly, speeding past a few monsters that made gobbling sounds, but didn't chase her, thank frack.

_ There has to be another lift _ . _ Who the frack would make an underground with only one exit? _

_ Social control,  _ her mind whispered _. Limit egress, control a population. By funneling the Outcasts through a single choke-point they can be monitored, contained— _

_ That’s fracked up.  _ The sand stung her eyes and she wished she hadn’t lost those goggles Carth had given her.  _ And the blaster. And that ion rifle.  _ The piece of rebar she'd picked up on the sand lay next to her, at least… so if she met a rakghoul she could… throw it at them.

_ What the frack am I even doing?  _ She wanted to bury her head in her hands and scream.

_ Surviving. Collecting allies.  _ She should have tried harder to get Captain Obvious to come with her. But he probably would have tried to shoot the Sith. She could try to find him again, or just move on, find someone less of a spanner-in-the-hyperdrive.

The sharp, unmistakable sound of weapons fire drew her attention up ahead. There—along the shadow of the wall, she saw another shield glimmer, and a few humanoid figures—light glinting off their weapons and armor, the bright fire of bolts flying clean as they the rakghoul charge down..

_ They’ll know a way out of this hell place.  _ Polla accelerated the crappy speeder into a sharp burn, heading towards them, best she could in a vehicle that was moving like it only had one working hydro-lift.

“Hey!” she shouted, waving.

One of the taller hunters raised his rifle, as if in greeting. A red line sketched itself across the sand, and Polla heard a sharp ping ping, like a scope adjusting.

A blue bolt sparked, practically burning her retinas and then the world seemed to freeze.

_ I’m dead, _ she thought. That bastard just shot me! Except dead was the impact of rough sand in her face, the momentum of rolling across the ground, the whine of another bolt— _ can’t be the same one that would be impossible _ —speeding overhead. Her breath came back in a startled yelp.

“The  _ frack?”  _ Something hot scored the edge of her sleeve, and she yelled louder, flattening herself as much as possible. “Hey! Don't fracking shoot me! I’m friendly! Friendly!”

Sound of impact, as the still-moving speeder collided with some debris larger than it. A few burning pieces soared above her head.

_ What a messed-up planet. _

Her hand, Polla realized suddenly, was holding the metal rebar in a death grip. Every muscle felt poised. Even if she couldn't see the assholes who were approaching her, she could hear them, muttering to themselves in a mixture of gutter Tarisian and Huttese.

They seemed to think she was TarSec. Polla didn’t know whether to be insulted or pissed.

_ Neither emotion will help now. These assholes,  _ she reminded herself,  _ will not be my death. _

“Don't move,” rumbled a gravel voice. Two armored boots connected to thick armored legs… her eyes traveled up to a blank, visored helm. The armor was white and scuffed—and Polla could see several places where the man’s clan symbols had been scuffed out.

_ Dar’manda. Guess they all are Dar’Manda now.  _ Being a smuggler, she ran into Mandalorians all the time, but most bragged about their clans like they were their dicks—especially after they’d lost their little war. The fact that this guy wasn’t showing his was weird.

The bore of an Aratech Systo Destroyer rifle jabbed her in the ribs. “You hurt?” the Mandalorian asked, gesturing with that fine, beautiful barrel of his, while kindly not shooting her.

Behind him, one of the others was making some sleazy comments. The Dar’manda held up one hand and the guy shut the frack up.

“You an asshole?” Polla snapped back. She spat out a mouthful of sand from her dirt nap and craned her neck up at the guy. “Mir’osik! Copaani mirshmure'cye! Why the frack were you shooting at me?”  _ Osik. You shit-for-brains. Hu’tuun. Destroyer—you’re a frack-damned, thick-skulled sociopath— _

_ Like all of his kind. _

“We thought you were TarSec,” the man grunted. “This is Kang’s turf. Most of em know better.”

“Davik Kang?” A knot of tension in Polla’s gut eased. “You know, I’ve been looking for him….”

“You don't look like his type.”

Polla lifted her head up more cautiously, still holding onto that rebar. Her mind started to tally the impressive amounts of gorgeous guns the Mandalorian had strapped to his hips and thighs.  _ That's a real Mandalorian repeater with self-targeting sights, a Czerka destroyer, looks like he's modified it. Nice. Aratech plasma blaster, self-charging…. _

“Nice weapons.” She pushed the rifle still pointed at her out of the way with her metal stick and scrambled to her feet. The Mando’ade was taller than she was, a bulk of beskar and explosives between her and his crew.

“Thanks,” he nodded. “Vor’e.”

Behind them, one of the others laughed. “You talking about his guns, lady—”

“Riek. Don't be rude.” The man in front of her didn't even look back, but his friend’s laugh stopped immediately. “Even barbarian women deserve the respect afforded to Clan.”

“At least the time in your mother’s tent taught you some manners.” Polla tapped her stick on the sand, swinging it back and forth experimentally.

“Ah.” The warrior slung the rifle back over his shoulder where it attached with a metallic click, and unsnapped his helm, lifting it off to reveal a square-jawed, stubbled face, with hair as iron as his voice. “Forgive me, little sister. I mistook you for troch.”

“Huh?”  _ Troch. They use it to mean outsider.  _ The metal stick wobbled when she tried to spin it, made it hard to compensate. Polla frowned. 

_ What am I doing?  _ She loosened her wrists, rocking it back and forth.  _ Better.  _

“Bint speaks your lingo, Candy?” One of the others. There were four others clustered behind. One was wearing beskar too. The rest were dressed in the typical garish colors and cheap plate she’d come to expect from coreslime the galaxy over. “Thought your lot kept all your women locked up on a moon someplace.”

_ Lingo?  _ It was then that Polla realized the man had been speaking Mandalorian, and that she'd answered in kind.

_ Well, yeah. I speak Mandalorian. I know languages. _

“Doesn’t matter what you think, Koss.” Candy said. He sounded like he didn’t give a frack. “Are there others with you?” he asked Polla. His tone to her was entirely different with her, almost deferential. 

“Huh? I'm not Mandalorian. I’m Polla Organa, From Deralia. I've never been to Manda in my life.”

“Malachor,” the man named Candy corrected. “The Malachor system was our home before—” He stepped forward, frowning. “Are you ill?”

He looked funny then, with his head tilted sideways.

“Rakghouls,” someone said in the background. “Wait’ll she turns, then we can shoot her.”

“No.”  _ Don’t shoot me, you jari'eyc aro’e.* _

… but maybe it was the entire planet tilting sideways, because the rest of his words turned to gibberish, nothing, compared to the roaring in Polla’s ears, the reflection of stars, superimposed above a planet made of ice—

_ This is the way the war ends _ , Polla thought nonsensically, before it all cut out like a light.

  
  
  


*jari'eyc aro’e - ruined or wrecked enemy

 

Xxx**Xxx

_ The man looked up from his empty glass and glared at Carth with cold, durasteel eyes. "Seat's taken," he said. The cantina was crowded and the bar stool next to the big man was the only empty seat left. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Doesn't look taken to me." Carth grinned. "Let me buy you a drink, soldier." He was celebrating their minor victory off Reisu, one of Althir's moons. You had to celebrate what you could. Live and fight another day. In the morning he'd take stims to take care of the hangover he planned on having, and then they’d fight some more. _ _   
_ _   
_ __ "I'm no soldier." The big man scowled at him, raising a heavy brow. "Can it be that you truly don't know who I am?" —Memory, Chapter 12

_ XXX _

_ A/N _

_ I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I hope there’s enough humor in it—Brzenczyszczykiewicz, I thought a lot about our conversation… and I didn’t change much from that bit—it felt like something that couldn’t be glossed over. There are, however, many lighter moments. _

_ Ty, Ether, as always, for your endless patience in my spinning of the idears. So much patience.  _

_ I know, the brackets… the language bracket thing I am still pondering.  _

_ And… this is the version with less typos!  _

 

_ Next chapter should be up pretty fast. It's mostly done. Thanks all, please R&R _

  
  
  



	7. Time After Time

**Oblivion**

 

_ There were no mirrors in the room, but ships are made of metal, and there were some surfaces polished enough to hold a reflection. Revan sat for a long time staring at hers in the watery glow of the medical sensor's container module. Skin so white it looked gray, and yellow eyes that burned sadly out of a face mottled with the ravages of the dark side. _

_ The face that drove armies, the face under the mask. _

_ Her old face, back again like a bad ghost. Her eyes had been green when Carth first admired them on Taris, but they weren't now—they were yellow as suns. Someone had lopped off her topknot, and her hair grew in, uneven and matted. Grew in red, not black. _

I dyed it, every time the roots grew in I dyed it, and I never thought about why.

_ —Memory, Chapter 1 _

**Chapter 7 / Time After Time**

The yellow blade flashed and spun; behind it, Polla saw the face of a woman barely more than a girl. The girl looked determined—but terrified too. The girl's fear felt incandescent—like a sun beating down on Polla's exposed skin. The yellow blade flared so brightly that it hurt her eyes, but instead of flinching, Polla felt her shoulders shrug. 

Polla's hands closed on something cylindrical. Something metal and hard. "You can't win," she said. No fear. No doubt. No emotion at all, as cold as constellations. 

_ "You _ cannot win," the girl echoed. Her face twisted with intent, power shining through her like a ray through the clouds. She took another step forward, leveling her weapon, a staff with two blades of humming, yellow light.

Behind the girl were two crumpled bodies, and behind them, onlookers, just standing there watching like this was a fracking duel. A few Humans. One Twi'lek. A Human man in a military uniform was whispering something in an old woman's ear. The arched ceilings and flashing consoles in the room demarcated a cavernous expanse. To Polla's left, a vast viewscreen of stars stretched—and approaching them like a leviathan purrgil, came another giant gray ship, triangular and massive, swelling until it filled their entire screen.

_ That ship's no Exchange tub. What the frack is it? _ Polla's head turned away from the girl, toward the seated man to her left—one in a row of technicians bent over screens; above them the viewscreen of her ship—and then she raised her hand—signaling to her commander—

_ My commander? My ship? That's not my ship! That's not my fracking ship! _

Something slammed into her like a supernova and then the world dissolved.

_ I want my ship. I want my ship!  _ Dancer’s Leap.  _ Mine. My ship. Not this crazying fracking giant one—  _

Polla’s head jerked up and her eyes blinked. As if she’d summoned it,  _ Dancer's _ console blurred into view. Her fingers ran across the keys of the board, flipping switches, listening to the ticking of the hyperdrive, safe and secure.

_ That was one hell of a dream. _

"Polla?" A male voice spoke behind her. Too smug by half. 

_ Therion. Loser was probably watching me drool in my sleep.  _ Polla wiped her mouth with her sleeve and picked up the laser sword next to her. She stood up and turned around. "Yes, my love?"

Therion D'Cainen managed to make being tied to her Ma's kitchen table look comfortable, which he did with everything else too, so maybe this wasn’t such a surprise. Above him, lights flashed on and off, black and red, creating a strobe effect that was making Polla's head ache. "I have a bad feeling about this. What are you doing?"

"Nothing." She kicked his severed arm across the floor. It hit the wall with a meaty  _ thunk _ . "I'm just… checking out the calibration on my saber before… before the fight." She switched off the laser sword, and took the pieces apart again, bending back down over her work. She spread the pieces out before her on the ground, placing them in order of re-assembly. "Lens. Focusing emitter. Power cell. Vortex conductor—"

"You can't use a saber." Therion sounded worried. "He said, blades or fists."

"I know. It’s a meditation technique I picked up from those hu’tuun. They do it with blasters. Helps me relax." 

“Even when you meditate, you have to do something.” Her ex chuckled ruefully. “Oh, Pollie. Always reaching, always _ —” _

“Winning.” She glanced back at him, or _ — _ she didn’t move, but somehow her thoughts were with him. “One victory and then the next.”

“You know that you can’t cheat. No sabers. No armor. You’re not even supposed to wear shoes.”

She chuckled softly. Sometimes Therion was such a fool. “I won’t need shoes to win.”

Polla closed her eyes, sinking to her haunches, and—probably because this was a dream and crazy fracking things happen all the time in dreams—the yellow crystal in front of her started floating next to the disc-like lens and metal ring. And, even more crazily, she could  _ see  _ the pieces. Even with her eyes closed.

_ A fracked up dream. What am I? A fracking Jedi? _

"But you don't have to fight him at all." Therion's voice sounded funny, and she looked up. He gave her a tight, concerned smile from the top of his limbless torso, craning his head up from the table. "I'm the stronger duelist. I could stand in as your Second—"

"You have no right to challenge him. He can't refuse my claim." She blinked, and time was—time shifted. Ma's kitchen table was surrounded by sand. The sun beat down hard overhead. Therion was gone. Gone... and there was a blank space where he'd been. A row of robed figures had replaced him, but their faces were all blank too, like a negative holo-image. One figure was distinctly taller than the others—

Polla blinked, and the tallest one wasn't there at all. 

_ What a fracked-up dream, _ she thought.

XXX

The walls were spattered red and green with blood, and the air stank. Davad and Beya had to step over a stack of bodies at the entrance to reach the black-robed man, seated on a barstool with Javyar's security feeds already disassembled in front of him, set to play on an endless loop, the motion slowed to a fraction of its original speed.

"Have you seen this?" Bandon said pleasantly, waving at their approach. “I suppose not, since I found no sign of you being here despite Lord Malak’s  _ orders.” _

The holo-image flickered as over and over, the woman with the Deralian top-knot dodged a blaster bolt at point blank range. Over and over, the bolt crashed harmlessly into the ceiling.

Watching it made Davad want to howl in triumph to the skies.  _ She has the Force! There is still something left! _

"Lord Bandon." Beya found her voice while Davad was still marveling at the recording. "It was kind of Darth Malak to send us an escort; but truly, Davad and I need no assistance." Her lips pursed, expressing her distaste. "You did not need to kill quite so many sentients. It will only cause civil unrest and waste Lord Malak's valuable resources."

"Your bartender thought leaving any alive might be ill-advised." Bandon nodded to the neatly bisected Ithorian, half of whose body was still propped against the bar; while the other half lay on top of it. "There's no telling what spies the Republic has on this world. He also claimed our former master called you cousin when she spoke to you via comm-link. I have a recording of that. Would you like to see?" The man stroked his beard like a holo-villain. 

"Revan called me cousin?" Davad leaned against the cleanest wall he could find, deliberately misunderstanding.

"No." Bandon had never been the brightest of men, but now he just seemed confused. "Beya. She called Beya Organa her cousin, and she calls herself Polla Organa—"

"I'm flattered the Jedi modeled their false personality after me," Beya drawled. "Rev was going to invade Deralia. I'm Deralian. A certain poetic justice in that, don't you think?"

Davad was quickly growing tired of this game. Especially, since Revan had been last seen running out into the wasteland of the Undercity. 

_ Unarmed. Helpless. Or… perhaps not so helpless. But no match for the beast I set on her trail. Wookiees are the apex predators of their world, and Kashyyyk is no tamed garden planet. _

The old woman had wanted Revan, he remembered suddenly. It was strange that the old woman was not here.  _ Or is she? If she is not, what if she thinks Revan is dead? _

_ I could keep this from her. I could keep Revan for myself, keep her from her— _

His gut roiled.  _ Not as a mindwiped shell. That shell is not her, but some spark remains. For a moment, she resisted me—she dodged that blaster bolt. If she could be restored—if she could know me again and we could make the galaxy tremble. We could destroy the old woman. This foppish idiot boy. Malak. And Beya, her betrayer— _

"Malak sent us here to meet with you?" Davad asked Bandon, gritting his teeth. 

"He wants her death recorded," Bandon said, flipping a small cam out of his pocket and into the air. It hovered there, and it took Davad a moment longer than it should have to realize the device was a remote before he reached out and pocketed it. "Use this. Have you had any sightings?" 

"In the rakghoul tunnels," Beya offered. "She fled into them. Are you going to look with us?"

"Lord Malak has not instructed me to do so." Bandon paused. "Yet." 

"Then go." Davad waved a hand lazily. "I'm sure you have more bartenders to slaughter in another sector." His eyes lit on the dead waitress collapsed on the floor, her tray of baked moffa-wings scattered around her like stars. His gut rumbled, as he bent down to pick one up.

"Disgusting," Beya remarked, vaulting easily over the bar to select a bottle of corugin from the top shelf. 

"And to think I once looked up to you." Bandon looked genuinely horrified. "Both of you. Sterling examples of Jedi knighthood."

"We were better knights than you will ever be." Davad shoved an entire wing in his mouth, crunching the meat to the bone.

Xxx

The wall that Carth and Mission followed through the wasteland of the old Taris Undercity had a series of circular holes spiked with some kind of silicate web set along its base. A vile mist seeped out of those holes and Carth struggled not to gag.

But Mission seemed entirely unaffected. In fact, now she was whistling what sounded suspiciously like the song she'd mentioned earlier, the one about Carth and Saul Karath.

"You… seem to know your way around." He kept trying to think of why a kid like her would come to this wasteland on purpose, but all the good reasons failed.

"Big Z taught me how to hunt and stuff down here," she said blithely. "Not like it's safe to practice on people."

"Well… yeah." He coughed, and not just because of the sewer gas seeping out of the wall. "Sounds pretty dangerous." 

"That's why we use blasters! Sometimes the ghouls're still wearing some clothes and stuff? Once I found a cred chip worth three hundred fifty! Zaal and I ate for a month on that."

He suppressed a shudder. "How'd you two meet?"

"Zee used to do some stuff for Calo Nord? And my brother Griff knew him? But Zee got sick of taking orders, and Griff… well, he… he's away cause of this really important business thing. He asked Zaal to look after me til he got back. He should be back soon? But I like living with Zaalbar. He's got a real good perspective on life. That's rare."

She turned to him. "Don't you think that's rare?"

Her blue eyes were so wide and young that it hit him in the gut, again, what this fracked-up galaxy did to kids.

"I… I don't know." 

"Trust me, it is." Mission paused, staring out at the plain in front of them. "Most sents get caught up in like, making creds, staying out of trouble, avoiding gang wars? But Zee and me, we don't need creds. And we don't get caught."

"You need to be careful," he warned her. It was no kind of life for a kid. "Just because you haven't been caught yet, doesn't mean you won't."

"Ugh, now you sound like Zaerdra. She's always trying to boss me around." 

"Maybe she cares." Carth didn't want to ask what had happened to Mission's parents or what made her so sure her brother would come back. He'd run with the Jammers himself back on Telos because he was bored. His father had been stationed out on Rim patrol—cleaning up the aftermath of the Kun War. But Carth's mother had been a professor at the U. He'd come home every night to a droid-cooked dinner and a room with a star-covered ceiling. His swoop had been a nameday gift. And when Carth did get caught (they all got caught—he thought that was the end-game of all criminal behavior—everyone gets caught), his father had pulled rank and had Carth Onasi, the High Colonel's son, admitted to a Fleet Academy on Quesh within the week. 

"Maybe Zaerdra cares?" Mission rolled her eyes at him. "Naw. She's just a busybody. Zee cares. He's the one who teaches me real stuff." 

"Like how to hunt these… rakghouls." The wind smelled foul and rotting. The walls of the platforms above seemed to define the edges of a cage. They'd passed several bodies—Human and rakghoul, most stripped by scavengers, or time. None looked like Polla. "Is there another way out of here?" 

"Course there is! Lots of ways. Nearest to here is the Exchange lift, but you don’t wanna mess with Kang's boys. They've even taken potshots at me!"

"Well, I don't know where Polla could be." Standing in the middle of this wasteland, thinking about how all of Telos looked like this now, made Carth feel way too far from home.   _ Even if there’s nothing left for me there.  _ "I thought we'd have seen her by now."

"You know what's weird?" Mission rattled on. "Usually there's lots more rakghouls. Exchange must've cleared em recently. They do that. Kinda public service? When I grow up, Big Z and I were thinking of joining up—course, it's like a five-year contract, and then I'd be ancient—so I don't know…."

"I thought I'd just… see her." He'd been a fool, again. Polla Organa wasn't here. She was dead, maybe. Or joined the Sith. Again. Maybe never left.

XXX

_ "Eejit," Morgana whispered, dark eyes dancing, smiling because she didn't mean it. "Always jumping in with your heart, not your head—" _

XXX

"Crazy lady?" Mission cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled. "Polla? Hey, Polla? Polla Organa?"

"Don't do that." Carth shook his head, but the Twi'lek was already pulling him to the side, to the wall again.

"Big Z will come if he hears," the little Blue said confidently. "Couldn't yell his name. Kang's Boys are onto us, you know? We raided them a  _ lot." _

"I need to get back to the surface," Carth said dully. "Get a few sets of Sith armor for that friend of yours, Gadon. See if I can rescue some of our men."

"Just the men?" Little Blue made a face.

"Of course not. It's an expression. We'll rescue everyone. Men… Women… or Durian, for that matter."  _ Rescue Bastila Shan. If Malak turns her into one of those monsters, the war's over. She has to be the priority here—she's the one who could help us win the war— _

Which was why it was so damned strange that the Jedi Fleet had been taking a tour of Rim planets that had no strategic value.

"Durian don't have legs so I dunno if they'd make good soldiers," Mission commented. "Learned that in school, back when Zaerdra made me go." 

"Kids should be in school."  _ Except when someone bombs their school. Except when someone drops a bomb on their school, and there are no survivors. _

"Can you look less mopey?" Mission frowned. "Where the kriff is Zaalbar?"

_ Don't curse, _ Carth thought.  _ Don't curse. Eat your veg. Stay in school. Do everything right, and a madman can still come and burn it all away. _

"I don't know," Carth said. "But I promise I won't let anything happen to you."  _ We lie. We lie to our kids all the time because we can't handle the truth—that a madman could come tomorrow and blow it all away—  _ "Be careful," he added.

"The crazy lady was a lot more fun than you are," Mission commented. "I hope we find her too."

They walked another half kilometer in mostly silence before she stopped him again. "See?" Mission pulled him against a pile of rubble, activating her stealth belt. "Looks like TarSec raided the Exchange hunt. Wow, that's nuts!"

The remains of a speeder were crashed against one of the bases to a Taris platform, half into an extensive-looking set of Aratech shields, all flashing low power reserves as if the impact had drained them. The area was littered with rakghoul corpses too, most shot at close range, but a few were carved up, stippled with puncture wounds.

Among the dusty debris and half-ruined equipment, something caught Carth's eye—a fluttering, black thing—surprisingly clean for its surroundings. A pile of black cloth, half-covering the corpse of a dead rakghoul.

_Imperial-grade,_ he thought numbly. _Eridu._ _They grow it on Deralia._

Polla Organa had delivered an entire hour-long monologue on eridu-growing techniques over breakfast that very morning. For most of it, Carth had just been watching the way her eyes seemed to glow when she was happy, and not screaming in her sleep, or babbling about being a registered smuggler.

"Is—?" Mission ran towards it, stopping to frown at him as if she wasn't sure either.

"Polla's coat." He walked over and picked it up. She'd ripped one sleeve. Weight in the pocket made it true. One vial of yellow serum and a handful of credits. She’d had five vials before. She’d had more credits. "She… she stole it. From some fancy shop in the Upper City."

"Cool!" The Twi'lek kid at least had the decency to look abashed a millisecond later. "Hey, cheer up, okay? Maybe she just got captured by Kang's Boys."

"What would they…?" Carth decided it was not a question for kids. His boot shoved the dead rakghoul under the coat experimentally.  _ Was it Polla? Did it look like her? Did the mutation happen that fast? _

An inhuman howl shattered his thoughts.

"Rakghoul," he muttered, eyeing those shields.

"Don't be dumb. Big Z!" Mission cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered. "Hey!! Hey! Over here!"

The Wookiee moved faster than Carth expected, hurtling toward them half on all fours, and half running, not at all weighed down by the bandolier and guns he had on his back.

"Yeeeouurrrrr!" He growled at Mission, sounding like he was scolding her too. "Tgrrrow, sssshyr, geeerrr."

"Relax, you old fur ball, I was fine! Just looking after this guy. What took you so long?"

Whatever it was took a lot more growls to explain, and by the end, Mission was frowning and glancing back between the both of them.

"Huh," she said finally, fingering a piece of black cloth the Wookiee had given her. It was, Carth realized, made of the same fabric as Polla's coat, and it looked like the piece missing from its sleeve. "Zaal here says this asshole Sith told him to hunt down Crazy Lady. Took him so long cause he circled round to throw em off our trail. So guess Polla's still alive?"

"Grrrowwwrrr," Big Z agreed. Or maybe it was agreement. The man was nodding his giant furry head at Carth like an exaggeration of the Human gesture.

"Yeah, he says she smells alive." Mission wrinkled her nose. "Gross."

The Wookiee barked.

"He says the most likely story is, Kang's Boy's took her. They're not usually slavers, so she's probably okay. Not like it was the Rusty Blades. Everyone says they like to eat soft-skins. But I bet that's just a rumor, you know? I knew this one Rusty Blade, once and he wasn't a bad guy, for a Gamorrean, just—"

"Aarryoo," the Wookiee interrupted.

"Big Z thinks we should scram. And I agree." Mission tugged at Carth’s arm. "Not safe to use the Exchange elevator—their automated defenses are real hard to crack—but there's a sewer entrance near here. Come on. We can climb back up."

_ Bastila Shan is important, _ Carth reminded himself.  _ Not Polla. _ But his hand wouldn't let go of her ragged, stolen coat.  _ She must be cold. _ He pulled away from Mission and folded it in half and tied the sleeves around his waist to keep his hands free. "Where would the Exchange take her?"

"Could be lots of places. They've got the lock on a bunch of wetwork biz—brothels, organ harvesting, dueling rings…." Mission shrugged. "What do you think, Zee?"

"Grrowwerr?" Zaalbar whined, following it up with a series of barks.

"You're right! Calo would know." Mission gestured to them both to start walking, heading toward a gap in the wall, where it looked like a crumbling platform wall had been newly buttressed by a replacement. "Davik's main guy is this loser, Calo Nord? He’s the boss of Kang’s Boys. And Nord hangs out at that high-class cantina in the Upper City. In Merchant East? The real name is Riik's cause the guy before Davik was named that? Or maybe it's short for Davik... there's no sign or nothing, so I dunno." She shrugged again. "Me and Big Z can't go there, but you can go and ask Calo. He’s a nice guy. For Exchange. Tell him I sent you. He’ll listen."

The Wookiee growled softly.

“Probably,” Mission amended. 

She popped open a hatch in the side of the wall, extracting a slicer's probe from it with the deftness of long practice. The illuminated tube within revealed a ladder going down. 

"Maintenance shaft. Has a ladder to the service elevator we take to the Lower City sometimes. You gotta watch out for Vulkars, but they keep it clear of rakghouls. From there, I'll show you my secret way to the Upper City—but you gotta promise not to tell anyone."

"Who would I tell?" Carth shrugged, smiling as he followed her down the ladder into what seemed to be a sewer. Zaalbar followed, closing the hatch behind them.

"Kaeroiwrrr…" the Wookiee rumbled. 

"The Sith," Mission translated. "You might tell them if you got captured. Or Calo Nord if he threatens you? Don’t piss him off, okay? You might tell lots of people. Big Z says you might tell lots of people."

"I won't." He jumped the last meter off the ladder and immediately regretted it, landing in something that splashed and smelled horrible.

"Watch it! Ugh!" Mission made a disgusted face. "Keep your voice down. This is close to the Vulkar base." 

_ The Vulkars who have Bastila. _ "Can you get me in there? Into their base?"

"You have a bag of rancor chow? Cause they have this big lizard thing guarding the entrance. Zee says it's a rancor?"

Zaalbar groaned an affirmative.

"I've… I've heard of them." He'd seen a dead one on Felucia. Very few things survived an Imperial strafing run, and the giant reptomammal had been no exception. 

_ We came in to get the survivors, but Darth Revan's forces were too damn good at their jobs. Too damned good in their freakishly fast ships— _

"We saw that one once? Lots of teeth. This guy Smik? Runs with the Vulkars? He named it ‘Fluffy.' Like a joke?" Mission made a face. "Fluffy has lots of teeth."

Zaalbar groaned and Mission growled back at him. 

"Zee says you should get your mate before we take on the rancor."

"My what? Who?" Like he didn't know. "She's not—Polla's not my mate."

The Wookiee growled something that sounded like a question. 

"But you've shared fleas?" Mission frowned, shrugging. "That doesn't really translate right. Germs? Spit?"

Zaalbar groaned, shaking his head. 

"He says the Vulkars won't keep prisoners in their base anyway," the Twi'lek added. "Or… or I guess they might? That's where they keep their swoop accelerator, so…."

Zaalbar shook his head again and cuffed the girl lightly on the back. His enormous paw was surprisingly gentle.

"Okay, okay! Geez, Big Z! I mean, they might keep em there! Brejik's done dumber things!"

_ I have to try, _ Carth realized.  _ If there's even a chance Bastila's in there—I need to try. Polla would only get in the way. She’s helpless. Or insane. _

_ But I've seen what the Exchange does to helpless sents, too. Polla's half out of her head. Bastila's a trained warrior.  _

_ I should rescue Polla first. Maybe get this kid to watch her. Then scout the Vulkar base. _

"Is there another way into the base? One without Fluffy?"

"How'd you and her meet anyway?" Mission wasn't even subtle about dodging his question, just steering him into what looked like an abandoned elevator shaft. When he and Zaalbar stepped on the slick duraplate floor, the entire thing lifted up with an agonized groan, proving it wasn’t as abandoned as it looked. 

"We… we didn't. Not until our ship was attacked. Polla was one of the specialists assigned to guard Jedi Bastila Shan, and I…" Carth frowned again, suddenly reminded how little it made sense. "I was just one of the grunts helping out."

"Grunt? Is that like Captain in Republic-ese?" Mission glanced up at Zaalbar. "I don't really get your army-talk."

"Navy. Fleet, really—" he coughed.

"Right." The little Twi'lek sighed, as the lift lurched to a stop. "This is us, bud. You can keep riding it up to the top if you want. Big Z and me got things to do."

"Where are you going?" 

Zaalbar whined, and the little Twi'lek elbowed him in the ribs. "Don't say that!" she snapped. "Seriously, Big Z! I'm not going anywhere!"

The Wookiee whined again, and the Twi'lek actually barked at him. After about five minutes of their cacophonous exchange, Carth started to feel restless. "I… I should be going," he ventured finally. "See you… see you back at the Bek base later?"

Mission broke off mid-growl, pasting a bright smile on her face that looked entirely artificial. "Yeah! Unless they move it. But you can always ask for us at Javyar's too. Zee does some bouncer work for them on the side and we… we have a base near there."

Zaalbar growled.

"Shut up! I didn't tell him where!" She shrugged at Carth. "Listen… told you already you were wanted, right? Keep that visor on. Most of the bio scanners are disabled, even the ones Uptown, but you don't want anyone to get a good look at your face. Fight the Power, right? Frack the Sith."

_ Don't say frack, kid. _ Carth managed a smile. "Yeah. Frack the Sith."

Xxx

"He was nice, right?" Big Z was being awful quiet, so Mission had to talk twice as fast just to fill in the spaces as they walked back to Javyar's. "I always thought Republic-types were more, like, preachy. Like those Mercy Corps cartoons?"

["Mission, I think you should stay with Zaerdra and Gadon for a few moons."]

"What?" Was he nuts? "One, Taris ain't ever had any moon that I can see. And two, no. You and me are a team! How can you even say that?"

["There is something new on this world. Darkness. The Hunt-King. He has my scent now, and it is not safe—"]

"You been drinking that fermented juma again? No!" Mission whipped her t'chin so hard to the side that it hurt. "Don't even talk like that. Don't even—"

Big Z's arm shot out, stopping her before she could say any more. ["Not a breath,"] he chuffed. ["Not even a twig-break."]

_ What? _ She signed with her head tails. But Mission felt something creepy too. Her hand went to her belt, and she blipped herself invis, just in case, backing into Zee. The belt wasn't really strong enough to cover her and all the big guy, but they were in a shadow now, both of them, looking at the entrance to Javyar's.

The sign blipped on and off, buzzing like it was broke. The music wasn't playing, and nobody was on bouncer duty, even though it was Eight-day, and the joint was always busy on Eight-day.

And the two front doors were… blasted open. It looked like somebody had exploded them open.

Just like the gate in the Undercity.

_ Cold, _ she signed, even if Zaalbar couldn't see.

It was. The air was real cold. Like the generators were down, but the lights were still on—

["Mission, stay here. I will check."] His growl was barely even a whisper. ["Find Zaerdra, if I do not come out."]

_ No, _ she shook her head. Even if he couldn't see. It was weird, but suddenly, Mission had a real bad feeling. Like really,  _ really  _ bad. 

["If you cannot find the Beks, find that Human man. Carth."] The way Zaal pronounced his name sounded more like ‘arf,' but Mission knew who he meant. ["He is good, Mission. He will keep you safe. I will try and lead them away. Do not follow."]

"No," she whispered again. "Please, Zee. Come with me."

[“The Hunt-King has my scent. Better I lead him away, Mission. Make this my hunt, not his.”]

“No.” But it was cold, and Mission knew whatever was in there had to be worse than the Gamorrean packs in the sewers, if Zee was this serious.

["I will lose them in the sewers. Madclaw makes them stupid."] His muzzle brushed her forehead with a Wookiee's wet kiss. ["Look in the Land of Promise if I do not return and bring rope so that we can climb back up."]

"But—" the word escaped, except Mission realized that she really, really, really did not want to go in Javyar's. Not now and not never again. "Okay.”

From the way Big Z's nostrils flared he didn't wanna go either. Hair on his back was all ruffled up, like he was trying to make himself even bigger. He did that when he was scared—and she'd only seen him scared twice before this. Once, when she'd gotten that Cimarrion flu and started puking everywhere; and the other time when that asshole Trandoshan slaver had come into Javyar's wearing a cape of Wookiee fur.

_ "The cubs died badly,"  _ Zee had said then, with no more explaining than that, before he pulled her out of there. 

Xxx

The Wookiee and the kid had left him on the creaking lift that went up another hundred meters or so before terminating in a tube-like tunnel with an escalator of a ladder jerking upward, lit by sullen, flickering little lights.

_ No way to go but up, Onasi. _

Carth clambered onto the moving ladder and then rode it up with Polla's stolen robe tied around his waist. At the top, he had a devil of a time getting the latch open—finally had to shoot it—and then a bad case of vertigo as the hatch opened onto a narrow catwalk with the planet's surface lost in near-darkness at least a kilometer beneath him, and what he hoped were the sidewalks of Taris a few meters of duracrete above. At least he hadn't climbed the whole way, but Carth's arms still shook with exhaustion as he tried to figure out his next move.

He'd been climbing through a maintenance tube—and above he could see another hatch set in the ceiling. But to reach the hatch, he would have to leave the security of the tube he was in and balance on the narrow catwalk below the access hatch—exposed to Taris's open, fetid air.

A raw wind whipped across his face as Carth took his first cautious steps onto the catwalk.

_ Here ends my story, _ he thought blackly.  _ I'd like to see the Sith make a kriffing song out of this. And then Carth Onasi plunged to his death on his ass—eey…. _

XXX

_ "I never loved you for the jokes," Morgana had said, laughing anyway, the first time he'd tried to rhyme Onasi and ‘assey.’ _

XXX

The tube he had just vacated closed behind him with a snap, leaving no way to open it again.

"Hells," Carth said out loud. "Blast. Stars." The wind whipped his words away. His feet slid on the catwalk, and he reached up, grabbing the handle of the round door above his head.

XXX

Bandon had left with the recording, no doubt scurrying back to Malak. 

A search of the cantina had revealed nothing more than the petty detritus of a dozen squalid lives, now ended. Davad said nothing when Beya pocketed the box of gree spice, the vials of glitterstim under the bar. He was too busy pondering why the odor of mangy, damp kath had increased.

A scuffling noise from the cantina's entrance caught his attention—and provided explanation. 

_ Hold, _ he motioned to Beya, coming closer to her, close enough to grasp her arm. Her free hand clasped her saber instantly, and he willed her not to be stupid; holding up his hand, tracing the sign for incoming they had learned so long ago before the wars even truly began on that Dxun moon. 

Her eyes widened, and she nodded, ducking to a crouch behind the upturned table.

Davad wrapped himself in shadows as the old woman had taught—just in time to see a Wookiee slip past the hall facing them, darting towards what looked like a repair closet.

The same Wookiee he had tasked with finding Revan.

"You found us," he murmured, still from the shadows. "Did you find the woman? I tasked you to bring her to me."

The Wookiee whined softly, submissively. ["Follow,"] he said. ["I lead to her."]

"I said to bring her." Davad let himself be revealed, but the beast-man didn't turn around, just opened the closet door; reaching towards its ceiling and pulling down a utility hatch. With surprising deftness for his bulk, the creature leapt up, appearing to climb a ladder to a crawlspace above, furry legs vanishing—

"A Wookiee," Beya murmured, voice a whisper in the Force. "Your Wookiee, Davad. But it occurs to me... didn't she have a Wookiee too? Didn't Dia mention a Wookiee? Wasn't there a  _ Wookiee _ on that recording Bandon just showed us?"

"And a Twi'lek—yes." Rage lashed in his guts for their stupidity, their blind arrogance—how many times had the old woman told him? 

_ "Most Sith are their own enemies. Watch long enough, apprentice, and you will see them sow their own destruction—their own apocalypse of pride—" _

"Your Wookiee is lying. He doesn't have her." Beya jumped over the upturned table with a tidy Force leap, landing beside Davad, just close enough for him to realize with a start that had her saber been ignited, she might have taken off his head. But instead, her gaze was focused on the comm link she wore on her wrist, staring at an outlined grid and a blinking light. "The tracker's showing dear Revvie's in the Upper City now."

"Good." He felt an almost feral growl build in his throat. "Then let's take care of her Wookiee quickly and go find her."

"Malak might accuse you of stalling for time," Beya murmured. "But that beast disobeyed you, and ending him won't take long." Her lip curled. "Race you for the kill—"

Xxx, 

_ The cub is safe. The cub is safe. _

Zaalbar let the growls keep time with his loping run, steering the hunters away from Mission still hidden in the hall (he hoped he hoped) and back down, through the twisted pipe that led down again into the waste-tunnels of Taris. There were traps and ghouls and places where a maddened beast—or two—might lose their steps there. He had to hope. He had to hope it was so.

Xx

The final hatch opened easily, exposing a circle of real night sky above. Not far away, Carth could hear people shouting, music playing. This planet’s excuse for fresh air gusted across his face, filtered and chilled.  _ Finally. Civilization,  _ he thought. 

Carth jumped up, forcing his tired arms to keep holding his weight as he pulled his body through, rolling across the clean duracrete of Taris's uppermost neighborhood.

"Phew!" He could have kissed that ground.  _ Was certainly clean enough. _ Carth’s eyes had time to register the platform stretching for dozens of meters around him, the overlights hovering above, the air suddenly clean and scented—

"Hold!" A patrol of Sith coming toward him faceless in reflective armor—two of them—followed by a buzzing drone. “Maintenance hatches are sealed outside of business hours, Citizen. Don’t move.”

_ Figures. _

"I… I was stuck!" Carth called out, dropping one hand back down to his blaster and his belt. "Rest of the team left me here? Was scrubbing the… plates when… they just left."

"Janitors work alone," the taller guard said. His hand was already on his gun, but Carth got the shot off, before diving back down the hatch like it was base in a trench war. He landed in a roll sideways on the narrow ledge, one arm locking around one of the catwalk struts, while his blaster hand took steady aim in the direction of the hatch and waited—

The other guard spent some time firing blindly down the hatch while Carth counted his shots; hoping that the guy wasn't using recharging shells. (Probably not, they cost too much, and civ guards shouldn't need more than fifty blasts at a time… at least on most worlds.) When Carth got to fifty, and noted the tell-tale pause of a man reloading, he ducked back under the hatch and shot straight up.

The guard fell down the hole, perfectly dead. The drone buzzed around the hatch until Carth shot it too, hoping the transmission it was undoubtedly taking didn't get a look at his face, even with the visor.

_ Armor,  _ he thought. _ They have it, and I need it if I’m going to get the Beks to help me. _ But even as he thought, Carth realized there was no time, not if that drone had tripped an alarm, or if blaster fire was the kind of thing that warranted investigations in this part of town.

Instead of stripping the bodies, Carth pulled the second one to the hatch and shoved him down; then broke into the fastest walk he thought didn't look suspicious, heading for the cantina to check with the guy Mission had told him to look up.

XXX

_ "Calo Nord? What’s he like? He's a real asshole," _ the kid had said.  _ "Short guy. Never takes off his goggles, you know? And if he starts counting, you need to run." _

Xxx

Waking up was like clawing her way out of a nest of eridu—like pulling herself out of a soft cocoon into a world that ebbed away the more she tried to grasp it. Everything was white and soft and warm—and stifling. Polla felt her head turn, and a wave of dull pain again, splitting her skull.

"She's coming round. Probably just that old concussion. Told you I treated her before."

"Sure it was her?" That voice. Granite.

"You think I get a lot of Human refs in the Under Levels? Trust me; it was her. She was with some soldier type. Kept asking all sorts of questions. Republic spies?"

"Maybe that whole  _ Endar Spire  _ crash was just the Republic trying to land some spies here." A young voice, excited.

"Think the Republic's making a move on Taris?" Granite, again. "Didn't think they still had the stones."

The world resolved into a world of white. A white room, and a round, circular bed.

"Babe?" Someone tapped her shoulder, and Polla nearly jumped out of her skin. _Where the frack did the table go?_ _Where am I?_ Ma’s kitchen table was gone, and yet, here was Therion, who'd somehow managed to untie himself and reattach the arms she kept slicing off his torso. 

Here he was, mouth like a knife and shirtless, grinning at her. "Babe? I've got a lead on a new run if you want in. Spice from Kessel to Biscayne." 

"Where?"  _ Therion and his runs. He was just jealous he didn't have a ship as good as  _ Dancer's Leap. 

"——-," he said. “From Kessel to -———.” 

"Where?" She frowned. His voice kept cutting in and out, like this wasn’t real. Like a bad holo-recording.

"Nau'ur laam," he said.

"Nau'ur kad." Her voice felt muffed.  _ Light it up. Wake up. Ignite— _ "Where did you say the run was at? Which system?"

"——-," he said again, voice softer. His brown eyes looked gray in the cold, white light. "Are you sure you want to do this? There's no coming back. Not from this. Are you sure?”

“No,” Polla whispered.  _ Fracking stupid idea in the first place, and the spice had mites. _

"Did you hear that?" A man's voice. Tenor. From somewhere outside the room. The young guy again. "I think her arm just moved. What did she say? Nau'ur kad?"

"I heard. Shukoy gar nuhuy." Therion's hand brushed Polla's shoulder. His voice was surprisingly deep. Like Granite. "Wake up."

_ Wake up. Break your sleep. _ Shukoy gar mirci _ —break your prison, your bonds, your chains— _

_ Another fracking dream. I’m so stupid! _

Polla cracked her eyes open. An alarm promptly chimed from some machine that seemed to attached to her arm, so she stopped trying to fake it out and tried to sit up, ripping her arm free. The alarm chimed louder, and the three men in the room stared back at her. Unlike Therion, their limbs all seemed well-attached.

Polla was lying on a cot in what looked like a bordello with an owner who was way too fond of a purple color scheme. Her head felt like it was still wrapped in eridu wool—and there was a row of trank patches on her arm that explained why.

_ The frack? Are they trying to drug me? _

The patches made a satisfying crunch when she crushed them between her fingers, blinking at the three guys: a smarmy-looking medix (he had the sigil emblazed conspicuously on his coat like he thought no one would buy him being a medix otherwise), and the two Mando'ade she'd met earlier. Granite-voice and the boy.

"You're awake!" the boy sounded happy about it. Maybe he didn't like unconscious girls. "You passed out down there before. Do you remember me? I’m Riek."

"Sure." Polla glared at him and was a little surprised at how quickly the kid dropped his gaze. _ Is he… blushing? Is this another dream? _ "Guess I still… hit my head a few… days ago. A week, or—"

_ Canyon wall. But I hit my head again, Carth said. Captain Obvious. Where the frack is he? _

_ You walked out on him, remember? Ran off to play with the Sith. _

["Uh… what tent gave you life, Mother-of-Warriors-To-Be?"] Kid seemed to be finding his courage again, addressing Polla in High Mandalorian, the archaic form they only used in ceremonies.  _ For oath-taking, or to assess hierarchy. _

_ I know that. I know that because I— _ for a second, she had no fracking clue, but then the answer came, like a soothing echo.  _ I know that because I know a lot of languages. _

"Huh? I'm nobody's mom, kid. And I hate camping. Where…." Where's Carth? She was about to ask when she realized they would have no idea.

"Riek." The man shook his head, and the boy flushed and retreated to the corner of the room. ["Her business is her own."]

"Hi," Polla told him warily. The medix was standing too close to her, and she nodded to him too. "Hello." There was a smell of kolto that was making her dizzy and a little nauseous. Too familiar, that bitter taste, the antiseptic smell.

_ Kolto. Blue. Blue light— _

Polla blinked. The room was purple and tacky as hell, but the lights were normal.

["I am Canderous,"] the man told her in colloquial Mandalorian. ["Your business is your own."]

"Damn right it is!"

"Doc Gurney," the other guy said in Basic. "We actually met before, but you were always unconscious. Saw you three times last week. The guy you were with was worried you were gonna die."

Doc Gurney's leer reminded her of that asshole Steyhin on Kessel, who always tried to cop a feel, but she guessed he had maybe saved her life. Maybe even twice.

"And I'm Polla Organa. Know where that guy I was with is now?" she asked the asshole. "Carth Onasi?"

"Haven't seen him, but he made the Top Ten." Gurney shrugged. "So, if he's smart he'll stay low."

"Top Ten?" She didn't get it.

"He was just on Taris's Most Wanted," Gurney said. "So were you—but a lot farther on down the food chain."

"You gonna report me?" Lots of planets had lists. Polla had never been big-time enough to make one before. Weird she had now because she hadn't fracking done anything—

"Hey, we're all on the same list. Not Top Ten, but the same list." Gurney shrugged. "Nobody reports anybody on Taris. Not if they want to keep breathing."

"Smart." Polla sat up completely, swinging her legs back and forth. Her head seemed to clear almost instantly when she focused. "So… this is Exchange turf? Think one of you gents could introduce me to Davik Kang?"

"Davik only hires women for one thing," Riek told her. "It would dishonor you for us to—"

"Riek!" Canderous glared at the kid. "Your business is your own, Polla Organa. But Davik is not here. He spends most of his time on his estate. What is it you want from him?" 

Polla shrugged. "Me and that guy I was with? We're Republic spies," Polla did her best to sell it. "Like you guys said when I was unconscious? You guessed right. We're… spies. For the Republic."

_ And you lot are Exchange thugs. On every planet, anywhere, Exchange are on the wrong side of the law, and if the Sith are the law here and I say we're Republic— _

_ Hopefully, that makes us friends. The enemy of my enemy…. _

"If you were unconscious, how'd you hear me?" The boy frowned.

_ Not the brightest. Could be useful.  _

"Riek!" Canderous snapped at the kid before Polla could muster a hair toss. "Republic coming here, then?" He sounded unconcerned, which Polla thought meant she'd been right.

"Sure." Why not? "The Republic are mounting an invasion against Taris. We're just the vanguard. Here to figure out the chinks in the Empire's armor? You know? The trattok'or."  _ Trattok'or. Point of collapse. Positions to crack the shell. Shatter the whole— _

"Find any trattok'or yet?" When Canderous lifted an eyebrow, Polla saw it was bisected by an old scar. Kid was easy, but she couldn't get a read on the older guy's face. Faded blue eyes, almost gray. Hard to read nuance with the stubble.

"Lots. So many weak points! What I need now is to find my partner-in-spying, and then we'll work out a way to break the blockade? Maybe… get us a new ship? I met some Mando'ade last night, promised to help… with the cause? Hey! Maybe you know them. Quarg? Jaxim? Prolerius?"

"Dar'manda," Canderous corrected her with a scowl. "They are clanless."

_ They had clan symbols. You two don't. _

"Hey!" The kid sounded excited. " _ That's  _ who you are. Jaxim said you recited the wedding vows with him last night! In the Chancey Cocktail Lounge?"

"Have you decided to  _ marry _ Jaxim?" For some reason, Canderous was glaring at her. Like he had a right to say who she was gonna marry?

_ Which one was Jaxim again? The blonde? _

"Of course, a woman marries her choice, but Jaxim is Dar'Manda," Canderous continued. "He has no right to wear his clan's sigil. Clan Tirga died with Lin. And Jaxim was never blooded in stars."

"He said he was homesick," Polla snapped. "He said he missed women's songs. I sang the only one I-I know. Must've seen it on a vid. I don't give a frack about your blood… stuff."

_ And you're Dar'Manda too, Mister Canderous No-Clan. _

But something held her back from mentioning that.

_ Whatever Dar'Manda fracking is. They are all exiles now. Wanderers. Mercenaries. The clans are broken— _

Polla felt dizzy and wondered if she'd been too fast, taking off those derms.

"Of course." Canderous shrugged. ["As I said, it is your business."] He pulled out a credchip and flicked it at Doc Gurney.

"Thanks." The medix shrugged. "See y'all around." He turned and walked to the door, a little fast, as if they made him nervous.

"Yeah." Polla swung her legs over the edge of the seat and sat up, flicking her topknot. "Guess I should get moving too. Thanks for… for bringing me here." She looked around for her coat, but it was nowhere to be found—and with it all of her credits.  _ Fracking hell! Did they steal them? _ "Where's here?"

"My employer owns the club downstairs," Canderous said. "We're in the Upper City, at a cantina called Riik's. [Do you wear your blades openly?"] There was a weight in his words that Polla didn't get at all. For a second, she looked up into his hard gray eyes and thought—

_ Gray eyes. Gray. Gray eyes are— _

She couldn't remember what gray eyes were supposed to be, but Polla's eyes were watering. She pulled the officer’s cap out of her vest and wiped them, shoving it on her head.

"No."  _ Not gonna ask these types for credits. You want the Exchange owing you, not the other way round. If these assholes stole them, I'll get revenge, soon as I get situated. _ "I am good. This the place where they do duels, right? For credits? This guy mentioned it to me… um, Bendak? Bendak Starkiller?"

"Nayc ijaa." Canderous spat on the floor. "Is that how you would fight for your Republic? With meaningless deathmatches?"

That hadn’t been Polla’s first thought—her first thought was more like, cadge a drink from some sap, then see if Captain Obvious had made it back to their hotel; but this guy being so rude kinda pissed her off.

_ Nayc Ijaa means honorless. Frack that. It's not my Republic, so why should I care? _

For a second the world blurred, and a sharp pain sliced through her guts. "U’cah alla y nik alin’aknoth," she snapped. _ My enemies are diseased man whores, not even warriors enough to sell their swords. _

"Brave words for a troch," Canderous said. ["The Starkiller is as damned as the star's fire he fled."]

"Whatever. I'm a brave troch. Hey, where's the dueling ring? Might try my luck. It pays, right?"  _ I lost my blaster. I'll have to find one. _ "Downstairs, right? Thanks, by the way." 

"Yes," Riek said. "If you call those honorless parades of false weapons and fixed fights duels…."

"Show her the exit. It leads to the ring." Whatever curiosity had been in the older Mandalorian's face, it was gone now. 

_ Frack you too, di'kut, _ Polla thought.

Xxx

"What will we do if the Republic comes?" Riek asked. Cub sounded worried as if the Republic's wars against the Sith had anything to do with them. 

_ Maybe in another generation. Maybe in another century.  _

"See if they pay more than Davik," Canderous cracked his knuckles, bending to stretch his aching knees.  _ Easy to get soft on this world. Too easy. _

That woman had reminded him too much of home: the soft burr of her Mandalorian insults, the fire in her eyes. Canderous wondered absently if her words as a warrior were all bravado. If she sought out Starkiller or Kang as opponents... or bedmates.

_ She's too young for you, dar'ri'duur. _ Although, Aemelie had been younger than this Polla Organa when she staked her claim on his soul.  _ You were younger then too. And Polla Organa is troch.  _ The way the woman had ignored his offer to prove her worth showed that. 

No woman of the clan would have turned down a chance to school a man in their arts. 

"Davik Kang hasn't paid us in months," Riek pointed out. 

"Don't tell the Republic that," Canderous pulled out his repeater to check the gage. "Would lower our price." 

XXX

Mandalorians hadn't lied. The dueling ring was through the double doors at the bottom of the stairs, opening into a vast room ringed with seats and a center pit. The pit floor was ferraglass—lined with circuits, and had a set of hovering holo-cams that beamed their empty light on the space between two portable blast-shields.

"Fancy," Polla muttered, shoving the hat down over her eyes.  _ If they give me a decent blaster, how hard can this be? Easy credits. _

Therion had dueled on hot sand beneath a sullen sky. Polla could still taste the ash in her mouth, hear the cheers of the crowd in the Nar Sublevels, close in and dank, everything rusted and dropping—

_ No, it was sand, endless sand. The sun was bright overhead. There was a man—a masked man, and the weight of the blade in her hand was off, unfamiliar for all that she'd practiced— _

_ Sand on Nar? No. It was fracking dark. Something was dripping on me! And I wasn’t dueling. It was all Therion. I was just watching but it didn’t look hard. It can’t be hard. I’ll show that Mandalorian hu’tuun what it means to fear the edge of my blades— _

_ My blaster. I mean my blaster—how hard can it be? You just hide behind those shields and line up your target. And then it ends. I will crush the Mando’ade scourge— _

_ —And then, they’ll pay me. They fracking took  _ everything.  _ All of my credits. _

_ I’m gonna take them back.  _

Upon asking, a nervous-looking Human directed Polla to the control room off the main stage, where a pimple-skinned Hutt held a mockery of a court.

In three seconds, Polla knew she preferred Zax downstairs if she had to choose between Hutts. This guy was a pompous gasbag, tongue practically hanging out of his mouth as he took her in.

["Tell the bed-woman it is a great honor, with the usual pandering to her beauty, her greatness, and our working relationship. If you cause any offense, Klistack, I will take it out of your hide."]

His translator, a slimy-looking, red-eyed Duros she had an irrational urge to throttle, started in with all of those Hutt greetings and banthashit… but when Polla lifted her hand, he fell silent.

["I will speak for myself. Surely, the magnificent Lord wishes to see the best shot in the Rim defeat whatever trash he has competing. A Mando'ade named Bendak Starkiller invited me to your shit-dwelling."]

The Duros made a startled 'eep' noise and retreated.

["Are you here to duel? You?"] Purple, stim-slitted eyes fluttered excitedly, as if Polla Organa was queen of Naboo. 

_ You think I can't? _ ["Yes. I'm here to duel. I'm Polla Or—"]

The Hutt cut her words off with a thump of his flipper. ["Certainly, you are… whoever you wish to be. But you'll need some kind of handle… in your time at Riik's. And I don't care what he told you—Starkiller isn't on the circuit. Bastard only does death matches. You're too pretty to die that messy. Too upsetting. Maybe… start out slow. Have you tried dancing? We could make a match between you and one of the other ladies. Tasteful. Clothed, of course. Nothing that would offend your patron…."]

_ Patron? Fracking Hutts. _ "I thought of dancing," Polla said coolly, switching to Basic. "But then I thought I'd rather fracking take over the galaxy instead. Right? I mean, dream big. That's what my da always said."

["Ho, ho. Of course. Already so far on your path to greatness. What about ‘Mysterious Stranger?’ It has a certain… cadence, does it not?"]

"Whatever. I just want a shot." If she turned around, she was afraid the red-eyed Duros might be still staring. "Need a gun though, left mine back at my… uh, space yacht. Know how it is?"

["Of course. Of course!!"] Was the creep drooling? ["We will provide the weapons. Only the best weapons. And the… most secure opponents. No way to lose!"]

"You're gonna have your guy throw the match for me?" Polla should be touched, not insulted, but she was both.

["Deadeye Duncan is an honorable opponent!"] The Hutt objected. ["If you fight him in your singlet I'll throw in an extra fifty."]

_ Extra fifty. I had thousands this morning. _

"Make it five hundred," she said flatly. "Five hundred a match."

["Oh, ho."] Ajuur chuckled. She hated his fracking guts. ["The lady would break me? I cannot. Do you prefer blasters or vibroblades?"]

_ Fifty’s at least enough for a drink and hovercab back to the hotel. Are we… did we check out of the hotel?  _ For a dizzying moment, Polla couldn’t remember the name of the place. "Blasters. I… uh, I don't have one."  _ I did, but I lost it. _

["We provide the weapons. That way, no cheating. The containment field kicks in when you or your opponent is near death, and then we supply the kolto to heal you."]

"Death? Actual death?" On Nar or Kesh, they used health meters. Not that she'd ever dueled. Just what she'd heard.

_ Not that I've ever dueled. But now I am. Therion dueled once or twice. I thought it was hot. I was such a kid back then. Stupid…. _

_ As opposed to now, when you're gambling your life for the price of a night's lodging. Fool. _

["Kolto is included. No charge."] Asshole Hutt waved a flipper. ["It is not in the interest of my illustrious House to let a beauty as rare and as precious as your ladyship die. Your expiration would be terrible for our business!"]

"So, you want me to almost kill someone for credits." Polla smiled. "Sounds okay."

Xxx

"Selven, come here! You have to see!"

"Can't right now, Gerlon. Finishing my drink." The reports of her latest assignment were scrolling across Selven's retina, overlaying the cantina in a haze of blue and red Aurebesh, diagrams, and mugshots. This was tricky work, comparing one employer's intel against the other, and while the cantina's hive of activity provided a welcome cover, she should have begun the review in her apartment. Selven saw that now. But her Sith master had requested a meet in this place—

The green Twi’lek was late. And it was not at all like Vikor Tio to be late. Perhaps this quest for Bastila Shan was all-consuming.

_ He should trust us to help.  _ Then again, she reflected, there were good reasons not to trust the GenoHaradan in any matters that fell outside of the strict constraints of one’s contract.

"Seriously, Selven?"

"Fine." She sighed, blinking to clear her eyes of the feed. It had been a mistake agreeing to sponsor Gerlon the maimed duelist, but she had assumed he would lose a few more matches and then give up, allowing someone more easily swayed to take his place in the rotation. Who knew the man had so much determination?

"What is it?" she asked, as he led her to the ring.

"Look." There was a big crowd, but most were booing.

Projected above the action itself, the two images of the duelists appeared closer than they were.

Which made the fact that they were both just standing there, firing blasters and missing, even more darkly hilarious.

"Is this a joke?" The haptic connection to her overlay took that moment to buzz, and Selven blinked, as her periphery lit up like a Harvestday Tree, burning bright as payday.

**Facial Recognition: Match(es) Found.**

**Current Alias: Polla Organa, Smuggler, Deralia**

**Match Found: Sheris Darkstar, consort to Darth Malak**

"Isn't that Darth Malak's… girlfriend?" Gerlon's voice was a vague buzz in her ears now because the overlay was still flashing.

**Match Found: Revan Starfire D'Reev, Sith, Dark Lord of. (Deceased)**

**ERROR: Refer to: Sheris Darkstar, identical genetic copy of Revan Starfire D'Reev**

It was none of Selven's concern how Padawan Sheris Loran had been altered to mimic Revan so closely that their signatures were bioidentical; but she still wondered, not for the first time, if it had been some kind of Force sorcery or science that had reworked the former padawan's body to its very mitochondria.

However, as far as she was aware, neither Force sorcery nor science was capable of resurrecting a woman over a year dead.

**Alert: Senate House D'Reev**

**Alert: Jedi Council**

**Alert: Darth Malak**

**Alert: Darth Arkan**

**Alert: Jedi Master Korr**

**Alert: Jedi Master Vrook**

**Alert: High Admiral Forn Dodonna**

**Query: Proceed with which Alerts....? AND/OR/ALL?**

**_Hold,_ ** Selven blinked. 

"Selven?" Hapless Gerlon nudged her ribs, and she resisted the urge to take out his eyes. One of the first oaths of her organization: No unnecessary casualties. They cause too many questions. 

"Yes, Gerlon." She pasted a smile on her face. "Who knew the Darkstar was such a terrible shot?" She softened her voice. "Get me a drink at the bar, would you?"

The odd thing about the duel was not that the two duelists kept missing each other. Selven had seen enough sick Sith games not to question that. No doubt there was a reason well above any of her pay grades. Nor was the odd thing that Sheris Darkstar, consort of Darth Malak, had changed her red hair to brown at some clumsy attempt at disguise.

No. The odd thing was why Darth Malak, the Republic Senate, and several Jedi masters seemed suddenly interested enough to contact the GenoHaradan regarding a woman who was not lost.

Selven had seen footage of Darkstar (still with red hair) from yesterday in the Taris dress shop where her sadistic friend had murdered the hapless Citizen Shikira Oplee. Indeed, smoothing over that incident with the local authorities had been one of the tasks Vik had assigned to her. (As with all things, credits worked wonders.)

**Query: Current location of Sheris Darkstar?** She blinked, pinging C6-V, who was stationed in the room next to hers, his broadcast beam on wide receive, ready to decrypt all that was found.

**Location Confirmed by ZX-8. Sheris Darkstar is currently aboard the** **_Grave Bright._ **

Footage followed of the woman's departure from Taris the day before. There was no record of her re-entry. Could the woman have evaded their sensors? And was there a reason Sheris Darkstar, consort of the Dark Lord of the Sith, could be slumming it as a cut-rate duelist named Polla Organa?

_ But even if so, why would the High Admiral of the Republic Fleet care? Members of the Jedi Council? _

Gerlon pressed a bulb of something cold and damp into her hand. Selven smiled to thank him.

"They're just shooting at each other over and over again—and missing!" Gerlon cackled, entirely missing the point.

"Yes, but you're so right, Gerlon," Selven murmured. "It's quite interesting." She wondered what her partner would think….

Xxx 

Riik's was packed, but there was a space around the short man with goggles at the bar that made it easy for Carth to spot him. As Carth approached, he pushed the visor up, revealing his face. He could see from the set of the man's mouth that the recognition was mutual, even before he sat down at one of the five empty stools surrounding the Exchange thug in the crowded cantina.

"I'm Calo Nord." Davik Kang's second was short, really short for a Human. And something about him raised Carth's hackles in a way only a Mandalorian could, although his accent was bland, generic Core. "And you're Carth Onasi. Heard there was someone in the Top Ten lookin for me."

"The Top Ten?" Carth frowned and didn't take a sip of the drink Nord pushed in front of him.

"Ten Most Wanted on Taris. Don't know what you did to get numbered, but congratulations. Some of us worked our asses off… but you just waltzed on in…." Nord laughed like it was all a joke to him.

"So, you know who I am."

"I've heard the song." Nord's eyes were invisible under those goggles, and so were Carth's under the visor he shoved back down covering half his face. "It true?"

"Haven't heard it myself so I couldn't say." Carth forced himself to stay calm. "Listen, I was told you could help me. I'm looking for someone. A woman."

"Whatever you heard, I don't deal in women." Calo shrugged. "And my boss don't lend out his stable."

"No! It's not like that! I… lost someone in the Undercity near your turf. This kid said you might know—said your people might have grabbed her."

"Grabbed… who?" The man's goggles hid any reaction. "Which kid said this?"

"You know a blue Twi'lek? Mission Vao? She runs around with a Wookiee?"

"Sure." The man took a sip of his drink. "Cheeky one with the hairball muscle. If she lives long enough, way I figure, we'll all end up working for her."

"Uh, yeah…." Carth wasn't sure if that was a compliment. Or how much to tell this ass. "We… I'm pretty sure my… my partner got grabbed by some Exchange muscle. Deralian smuggler? Brown hair? You—you haven't heard anything?"

Calo tilted his head. Those goggles just reflected Carth's own face back at him. "I've heard some things. Heard you're the one with that song. Heard about the massacre down in Javyar's. A few hours ago, but bad news travels fast."

"Javyar's… the cantina?"  _ Massacre? _ His gut sank.  _ Mission. Zaalbar. _

Nord nodded. "Ugly business. When  _ they  _ go feral, smart money gets the frack outta Dathomir. Lotta Bek money was tied up in that business. All on the lam now, if they have half a brain."

"Mission." Carth felt like he'd been gut-punched. "That kid—do you know if she—"

"Haven't done the body count myself, and the Sith don't always leave pieces big enough for a tally, but she's not on the known casualty lists." Calo tapped his goggles, and Carth realized they were tied into a live feed… of something. "I'm fond of that bint myself. Be a shame if something happened to her before she got old enough to—"

"Don't." Carth eased his blaster out of the holster while raising his other hand like he might throw a punch if the man continued.

Nord chuckled. "—was gonna say, qualify for the swoop championships. Kid's not half-bad." 

From behind them, the crowd suddenly cheered at something projected on the screen. "You see that? She closed her eyes!"

"Twenty kriffing minutes they were plugging at each other! She closes her eyes and makes the shot?"

**"One in a million, folks, let's hear it for the Mysterious Stranger! Won over Deadeye Duncan, with a perfect headshot, right between the eyes!"**

"Twenty minutes?" Nord glanced up at the screen. "Huh. That's gotta be some record for bad. Duncan's half-blind."

Carth followed his gaze. The holo-screen had flashing lights and ads surrounding it, promises of an unimpeded live view in the back room of the cantina, with lurid, red arrows pointing in that direction; but the images were still clear, even with the advertisements for Juma-Jolt and Taris Hop Ale superimposed above them. 

A familiar top-knotted woman, holding a Sith officer's cap in her hand as if she'd just taken it off. As Carth watched, she nearly swept the floor, in an elaborate, almost courtly bow.

_ Graceful,  _ he thought.  _ So graceful when she moves. Like a jryyysh snake in the grass. But alive. She's alive. _

He found himself relieved.  _ Course you are, you spent a week watching her scream, expecting her to die— _

"Holy kriffing Mandalore's… balls!" Calo Nord choked. "The hell is she doing?"

"You've met Polla?" Of course. He works for a crime lord. She knows everyone on this fracked planet. That TarSec guard called her the Crazy Sith.

The relief he felt at seeing her alive was fading pretty damned fast at seeing the expression on Nord's face.

"Polla?" Nord didn't even glance at him. "Yeah. Sure. Sure I have. Nice girl." He turned his head toward the door. "Selven? Hey! Selven!"

A slinky blonde walked toward them like she owned the place. "Guess I don't have to ask," she said, gaze flickering over Carth like he was invisible.

The two of them just stared at each other after that, long enough that Carth felt like his whole skin was itching.

"Excuse us," the blonde said finally, frowning at him.

"See you," Carth muttered, and went toward the back to find his recalcitrant smuggler.

Xxx

Now that she was fifty credits richer, Polla figured she should have fracking fought in her skivs and made it a hundred. 

Of course, the asshole Hutt had his minions pay her with a credchip, and not a stack of credits. She eyed the square piece of plasticore dubiously again, wondering if there was really anything on it at all.

"How much is a Tarisian ale?" She waved, trying to get the bartender's attention; but when the yellow-haired Human finally bothered, he just sat a flask of frozen-looking wine on the table next to her and backed away slowly—apparently distracted by the floor or the fracking half a day it seemed to have taken her to shoot Deadeye Duncan in the head.

“Interesting," a voice murmured in her ear. The accent was almost familiar, but the face wasn't: just another Twi'lek guy with goggles, green skin, wearing gloves, and some plain banthahide robes. "You let Duncan think he might win."

"I know you, bud?" She drained the too-sweet wine too fast, scanning the crowd. The bar was crowded, but there was a lot of space around them all suddenly.

"Apparently not." The Twi'lek sounded amused. "Are you going to try another duel?"

"I might die of old age first." She raised her glass to Deadeye Duncan, who had a kolto pack on his skull where her bolt had taken him down. He looked confused like he didn't see her. This close, she noticed his eyes didn't really focus. 

_ Was I fighting a fracking blind guy? With some kind of rigged gun that couldn't aim?  _

_ Frack this planet. _

"Dance with me?" The Twi'lek pressed closer than Polla liked. 

"Sorry, chum." She flashed him a smile to get him to back off. "I dance alone, these days."

"You’re not alone now… are you? I’d say you have the eyes of everyone here after your victory." The man was about her height, with goggles over his eyes, and lekku that looked a little too polished to be coreslime. His arm slid around her waist as his head bent toward her ear.

"Many eyes are dangerous," he breathed, so light that it was barely a warning.

Polla started to pull away, but his foot slid behind hers, and for a moment, the air seemed… thick, like her legs were frozen, her arms locked to his. "The frack?"

This tip of his lekku brushed against her neck, tracing a symbol there—and then three more. Ryl.  _ Everyone. Owns. Eyes. Here. Danger.  _ A pause.  _ I can help. _

_ Ryl has three dialects: spoken, seen and touched.  _ Polla knew that. Polla knew that because she knew a lot of languages.

"Do you understand?" he murmured, again, breathing in her ear. 

“Eyes?” Polla couldn’t see his. She didn’t like it. “If you’re gonna talk about eyes, show me yours.”

“Of course.” He pushed the goggles back to his head. Beneath, his eyes were the color of lemmas. He raised his voice. "I have a hotel room in the Lower City.  _ The Sunset,  _ room five-three-eight, if you're interested in a dalliance."

_ No hotel. Upper. Droid Store. _ The lekku tickled when they traced numbers on her neck, almost too fast for her to follow. 

_ Eight. Nine. Five. Three Thousand. Fracking gibberish? _

_ No. Coordinates. He’s giving you coordinates. You need to find a map, triangulate the location. You're being watched—he said you’re being watched. He said he’d help. _

_ Frack him. I should give him something to watch! _

"Bud, I think you need to lay off the spice!" Polla leaned closer, her hands reaching to check for a usable weapon on his belt—and came up empty, her hand closing on a metal loop like she thought she'd find something there.

The Twi'lek chuckled softly. "In my boot. A habit I picked up years ago."

"Bully for you…." Polla's voice trailed off. A Human man was pushing his way through the crowd. He looked a little ridiculous with that visor like a welder's mask, but there was no mistaking that fine-cut jaw, or the orange jacket—now with a newly-melted patch on one of the sleeves.

_ Thank frack, _ she thought.  _ Never thought I'd be so thrilled to see Captain Obvious. _

"I think my brother's coming to save me," she murmured sweetly to Mister Green. "Took him long enough."

Xxx

Her cheeks were flushed from wine and she wasn’t dead. Didn’t even look injured. In fact, Polla Organa looked pretty good for a woman who'd somehow made it back to the Upper City from the Under, with no weapons and no credits, with nothing but the clothes on her back.

Carth was happier to see her than he’d expected, after the fight that had ended with both of them storming off and him vowing never to have anything to do with Deralian smugglers ever again. 

He’d come to rescue her, but she didn’t look like she needed rescuing. He'd come here to meet with Calo Nord, and find out if the Exchange knew anything about the woman last seen heading to the Undercity to meet with Dark Jedi—

But here she was. Not dead or in danger. 

She was still wearing that damnable Sith hat (or had gotten another one), dancing close with some scuzzy Twi'lek. Carth couldn't help but notice the possessive way the guy held onto her hip, her arm, the way she pressed into him—

"May I claim this dance?" A dark-haired woman smiled softly at him. "I remember you… from the bar, before? Yesterday?"

"Yeah, I-I remember you too," he muttered. Hard to forget, when the dark-haired woman had looked so much like—like Morgana. He could barely remember his wife’s face, but this woman had the same dark hair, loose over her shoulders, the same glint of dark eyes. It was hard to look at her, so his eyes skipped back to the smuggler, dancing with some other guy like they were the only two people in the galaxy. "Sure, we can dance if you want."

Might show the smuggler that he wasn’t here for her. That he hadn’t come to this place for her. Even if that was a lie, she might believe it.

"Looks like I'm not your first choice." The dark-haired woman’s voice was light.

He'd forgotten his own wife's face. He didn't have anything to remind him. Oh, he'd salvaged an old album, and there were the vids and snaps they'd stored in the wires… but Carth had locked the album away in a bank vault on Byss with the small pile of things he'd salvaged from his son's room. 

Looking at this woman would hurt, so he didn’t. "I'm sorry," he told the dark-eyed woman, already walking past, pushing his visor up so she’d know him.

"Excuse me," he said to the asshole with her. "She's with me, bud. She's my crazy sister."

"Frack off, brother." Crazy Sis had a warning light in her eye. "Don't want me to tell these nice Sith officers about your contraband biz, do you?"

"Depends," he muttered. "Do you want me to tell them about  _ your  _ contraband business?"

"I offered a discount." She shrugged, casually, and the guy she'd been dancing with just kind of… melted off her. Stepping away like she'd shrugged him off like a bad cape. She raised her voice. "My rates are better than my brother's here."

There were too many Imperials in the room; every instinct Carth had said to run.

But then Polla Organa, the crazy smuggler, tensed on her feet and did a backflip onto the top of the bar, coming down with a perfect arch of her back, and standing again, suddenly towering over them all.

Strangely, one guy near the back let out a startled yelp and ran out.

The music abruptly changed tempo, became something slow, a little sad. But with a steady beat. And then, she began to dance.

At the time, he hadn't understood, hadn't known. Hell, half the sents in the room didn't look like they got it either. A few more left—left fast. Some in a corner were whispering. But Carth suddenly couldn't tear his eyes away—

Polla Organa danced like she walked backward through crowds. She danced like she was boneless, like she was walking on air. Her eyes were half closed, and her hips moved slowly—

"Sheer-reesss!" A lone whistle from somewhere in the back of the crowd. "Woooo hoo! Take it off, babe!!! Do it like we're M—" The drunken catcaller stopped so abruptly he might have been snapped—words cutting out with a startled yelp.

Polla didn't react, she just kept moving, her head shifting, and those eyes half closed, green, and half-lidded. Staring straight at Carth with that lazy, smug smile.

"Polla," Carth whispered. His mouth was suddenly dry. He raised his voice. “Polla!”

“Mmm?” She looked down at him, then bent into a crouch so they were nearly eye-level. Her lips were pursed in a flirtatious smirk, but her eyes were startlingly direct, staring into his without a hint of artifice. “You sorry for leaving me?” 

_ We need to get out of here.  _ The room was suddenly dead quiet. Faint scuffling noise behind them, like something was being dragged. Nothing important. "I-I like your eyes."

"You like my… eyes?" 

That smirk on that wide mouth made him irrationally stupid. Carth knew… he knew that. "Uh." He didn't like how quiet it had got—the music had stopped. It brought him back to reality like a cold fresher seat.  _ Bastila. That poor Twi’lek kid. Something happened at Jayvar’s, Calo said. And everyone’s watching us. _ "We… we should really go."

"Okay." Polla… flipped off the bar, landing lightly on the balls of her feet. There was suddenly a lot of space around her. There were fewer sents here than there had been, but over by the door, Carth noted his old pal Calo again and that blonde. Across the room, the brunette who'd approached him, and that guy who had been hanging off of Polla were staring at them. As he watched, the brunette grabbed the Twi’ek’s arm, scowling. It was too far away to hear what she was saying—

"I'll be back tomorrow!" Polla called out to the room. "If anyone wants to see the Mysterious Stranger in action! Put your orders in then—soon as we get official permission from your authorities to break your blockade, we'll be in business! Stop by tomorrow!"

"I-I don't know if that's such a good idea—" Those green eyes met his again like a shot of hyperdrive, and Carth's words died in his throat.  _ Play along, Onasi. Just get out of here. _

She took Carth's arm like she owned it, ducking her head close to his. Her voice shifted to a whisper. "Grass Priests, am I glad to see you! I lost all of my credits. These Mandalorians brought me here—I just made another fifty, and the bartender comped my drink, but I didn’t know what the hell I was gonna do next.”

"I have them," he muttered. "I have your credits."  _ Of course, there were Mandalorians. Calo Nord's men are Mandalorians. Of course they are. And, of course, the Mandalorians brought you here. _ "I have your coat too." He pulled it off from around his waist and helped her into it, trying to keep them moving toward the door. There was… something in the air. Carth couldn't explain it.  _ Pilot's intuition. You learn to check the sensors for an ambush. You learn to check the dark corners of spaceside bars; you learn to wait for the other shoe to drop— _

"Thanks." She scanned his face. Hers was eager and open, but there were shadows under her eyes and he suddenly wondered how much of this was the act, if maybe even sucking up to him was part of the act. "I think you might be right about this planet. It's giving me the creeps too—"

"Dad? Dad! It's me! Bluebell!" Something wrapped around his midsection with the tenacity of a mynock. Arms. When he looked down, the empty space blurred, became Twi'lek-shaped. 

Carth's heart stopped.  _ Dad. No one's called me that since Telos.  _ His hand brushed the bare skin of Mission Vao’s arm.

A green-skinned tusked sent barreled into the room, swinging a large, spiked club that didn't look like it was just for show.

"Hey! Vao! You know we can see you on the scanner, right? Get outta here and stop bugging the customers—she's not allowed in here—" the Gamorrean bouncer froze at the sight of them. "Oh." His snout twitched, and his ears slammed back, gaze swinging from Carth to Polla and then back to Carth. "I'm sorry. I did not know." He waved a clawed hand at them. "I'm gonna… gotta… go. Fresher. Uh…."

He was worse at walking backward than Polla was, crashing into two tables and a chair before making his exit.

"Huh?" Polla frowned. "Kid?"

A millisecond later, a blue Twi'lek kid popped into existence, her arms already wrapped around Carth's chest, sobbing as if her heart was broken.

"Kid? Mission, right?" Polla was next to him, half hugging, half pulling the little Twi'lek away from him—but the Twi'lek hung tight. Polla looked up at him and then back at Mission. Her expression was so genuinely concerned that Carth felt like a heel for all of his earlier suspicions. "It's okay," Polla patted the girl's back. "What happened? You can tell us."

"They're all dead. All dead. The Sith. They killed them! They're all dead! Everyone at Javyar's! Even Katrona and she were only the bus girl! She wasn't mixed up with nothin! And… and the Beks…."

_ Oh, no, _ Carth thought.  _ What have we done? Did we do this? Does helping us put those people at risk? _

"The Beks?" Polla frowned. "Your gang? They're dead too?"

"They… they moved, I bet. Stuff must be crazy-bad if they'd just move. That was our turf! Gadon and Zaerdra had it all fixed up nice! And my place, me and Zee's…. Those Sith trashed it. Blew it all up! When… when I knew Big Z had led them off, I went to see… everybody was dead!"

"Where is your Wookiee friend?" Polla blinked. "Zaalbar? Where is he? Did they—"

"N-no! But he told me to find you, Captain Carth! Zee was talking crazy! He said the Hunt-King was after him and it wasn't safe for me no more! H-he ran off to lead them away, I think. He-he said I should find you…. If anything happened and I couldn't find the Beks—"

Mission’s blue eyes were like daggers in Carth's heart. But then he looked around long enough to see two figures fade back into the shadows of the suddenly near-deserted bar. Two  _ more  _ figures he could have sworn hadn't been there a second ago.

"I don't like this," he muttered. "Any of this. Polla? If you know anything at all—"

"I know that if the Sith killed your friends, we'll get payback," the Deralian vowed to Mission, shooting Carth a glare as if he didn't have the right to be suspicious.

"They did! I just told you they did!"

"Then they're gonna pay." Polla straightened up like she was suddenly in a full-dress military parade. "Come on," she barked at them. "Let's go figure this out."

XXX

The dark-haired woman dug her fingers harder into Vikor Tio’s arm. “You were  _ dancing?”  _ she hissed.  _ “Dancing?” _

“Yes,” he smiled back. Blocking Xaset’s peculiar gift was taking a great deal of Vikor’s concentration—although he suspected the lack of a true heart’s desire worked in his favor. “And now, she’s leaving the bar. Did Beya order you to follow  _ her?  _ Or did Malak command it directly?”

Across the bar, Selven nodded at him. He’d intended to set her on the woman’s trail as well, but that plan seemed foolhardy now, if Organa’s network was also involved.

All of this excitement over a woman who was, in Vik’s assessment, entirely useless; helpless as an ekk larva, blank as an empty plate, and only good for one thing.

_ I wonder if she will make the rendez-vous. If she even understood those coordinates.  _

His expectations were low.

“If you must know, Beya sent me here, but I sent my recordings directly to _Malak._ But what are _you_ doing, Vik?” Xaset Terep still held Vikor Tio’s arm in a grip hard enough to bruise. Her (currently) black eyes narrowed, glaring at him, and the bad Telosian accent she’d affected when talking to the Republic captain, dissolved like mist, revealing her normal Corellian tones. “You know Lord Malak will see. Do you want to lose your head like Davad Arkan?”

“Last I checked, Davad still had his head,” Vikor drawled. Sometimes he got so tired of these people; these warped shadows of their former selves who used to be his friends. His hand tangled in the strands of hair he’d plucked from the presumed Starfire’s head and he fed them into the pocket-sized bioscanner he’d acquired for just this purpose. It buzzed three times under his fingers, confirming what he already knew.  _ Genetic match, not that it means anything. I know it’s her.  _ “Who are you supposed to  _ be,  _ anyway?”

“Morgana Onasi.” Xaset shrugged, the dark eyes fading, yellow bubbling to the surface as she let the illusion drop. “Or, enough for a passing resemblance. Beya suggested I shouldn’t mimic the dead man’s wife  _ exactly.  _ He’s the suspicious type.” 

“Organa’s losing it too,” Vikor shrugged. It was true. 

Quite helpful for him. 

The mindwiped, Force-blinded former Lord of the Sith was only good for one thing... but that one thing held the galaxy. That one thing was the only thing stopping the Sith Empire from victory.

Unlike the rest of the mad Sith around him, Vikor knew about the Force bond between Revan and Bastila Shan. Unlike the rest of his former friends, Vik had seen the Republic Fleet’s medical records from the _Ascendant,_ which documented a near-parasitic link between Bastila and the Dark Lord she’d saved. And while it seemed possible (maybe) that Bastila, with her years of training, _might_ survive the death of Revan; Vikor was quite sure the same could not be said for the woman who called herself Polla Organa, were Bastila herself to die.

_ Therefore, Bastila Shan is alive. And I have to find her before Malak’s insane lackeys do. _

But Davad and Beya had reported Bastila dead. Either Davad and Beya were conspiring against Malak… or they were, as so often happened to mad Sith, just plain wrong.

Either way, Vikor’s  _ true  _ master needed to know immediately.

Soft hair brushed his fingers and Xaset chuckled. “Oh, Vik. Could you  _ be  _ any more predictable?”

Vikor blinked. For a moment, Xaset’s eyes seemed to lighten, turn almost blue. Her lean figure swelled generous breasts, her hair shone a rich, chestnut brown, twisted in braids—

“Really, Vikor?” Xaset sighed, glancing down at herself. “You too?” 

XXX

“What was the meaning of your little stunt back there?” Carth had refused to let Polla or Mission descend into the hatch where he’d apparently stored two sets of Sith armor; but from the piecemeal way he was handing segments of it up, Polla was pretty sure he was stripping the pieces off bodies. “Dueling? Dancing? Do the words ‘lay low’ mean nothing to you?”

Almost like the galaxy wanted to prove Polla right, the next piece of armor plate that Carth handed her had blaster char on its surface. Alluplate was gorgeous stuff—seamless when linked together. If you liked looking like a giant silver dong, Polla thought wearing it would be the way to go… but then again, all that seamlessness hadn’t seen to have done the poor slobs wearing it here any good.

_ That is one sweet blaster that man carries. I need another look at it. _

“Didn’t know if I’d see you again, Flyboy.” Her hand still felt warm—a little—from where he’d grabbed it, dragging her away from the perfectly decent-looking weapons emporium in the merchant quarter to this deserted platform on the edge of noplace, where, apparently, he stored his kills. “I needed credits. Guess Canderous and Riek forgot to take my coat after I passed out.” Now, the credits were a reassuring weight in her pocket, and Captain Obvious was once again a weight around her  _ neck.  _

“Did you want to see me again?” Carth wasn’t flirting. She’d thought he’d been flirting in the cantina; when her own nerves had kicked into overdrive; but he’d had the timing of a cracked accelerator chain back there.

“Yeah.”  _ Preferably on Zeltros in a bubble bath, maybe gagged if you’re going to keep yelling... but even so. Yeah.  _ Polla started to lay out the pieces that Mission had stacked, assembling the chestplate and vambraces on the pavement. “In fact, I did. I-I was going to look for you at the hotel, after I scored some credits.”

_ Why did I take that duel? Because that Mando’ade di’kut looked at me like I was osik on his boot. Why did I dance on that bar? Because that asshole Twi’lek said everyone was watching me and I wanted to make sure they got a fracking good look.  _

It  _ still  _ pissed her off, but Polla thought she knew what was going on. In fact, she was proud of herself for figuring it out. 

_ The Sith want Bastila Shan, right? They know we’re Republic and they know we’re looking for her. So they want to keep us in their targeting reticule and have us find her for them. _

_ Lazy kriffing Sith.  _

“Did you kill these guys?” Mission asked Flyboy, taking what looked like two pieces of a boot from him. “Yourself?”

“I—yes.” With just his head and a shoulder sticking out of the hatch, Carth should have looked comical, but there was nothing funny about his expression, or his grim tone.

“Good.” The kid spat on the ground. “I hate the Sith.” 

“We all do,” Carth said, but he was staring at Polla.

“Hey, I hate them too! They killed Mission’s friends and they’re kriffing lazy murderers.” Polla spat on the ground too. “Lazy kriffing murdering  _ losers.” _

XXX

The  _ Grave Bright _ nestled in the Leviathan's largest docking bay like a child tucked in a cradle. There were times when the Lord Malak's protection made Sheris feel safe.

This was not one of them.

XXX

_ "Depart immediately," Malak had told her. "Go to the estate on Thule. I need you to supervise the rebuilding of our palace. There is no one else I trust with the task." _

_ Palace. More like a fortress. Sheris could no longer stand the sight of it; the ruin of her careful plans.  _

_ "Come with me," she begged. "The war is going well enough that you can leave for a time."  _

_ "I cannot." He squeezed her hand, and she leaned against him, both of them watching Taris below. "If I need to burn this world, I want you well clear." _

_ Was it kindness, that her lover wanted to spare her the feeling of another dying planet? Or fear that she might lose the healing gift that made her so useful to him? Was there a difference? _

_ "If I go, give me Beya," she said. "I am tired of talking to servants and slaves." _

_ She felt all of Malak's muscles tense. "For what purpose? Do you prefer her company to mine?" _

_ "Only at the ryss table." It was true. But playing ryss with Beya Organa would be more amusing than watching the lightning storms from the window of the rebuilt tower on Thule where Malak wanted to keep her. "Let me go to Manaan instead. Or Korriban." _

_ "You hate wearing a mask." Affection colored his metallic voice. "And I would not have you be confused for some Revan pretender or holo-vid actress—" _

_ "Beya would protect my honor on Manaan." She kissed his hand. "My Lord." _

_ "She  _ does _ seem more loyal to you than to me," Malak mused. "Perhaps I will send her to you when her current assignment is complete." _

_ "I can keep her loyalty." She planted another soft kiss on his bare chest. Then another, and another. "To us. Let me help." _

_ "You have. You do." He brought her hand to the place where his mouth should be. "I could not win this war without you." She felt his breath through the vents beneath the prosthesis, hissing in and out. “I suppose there would be no harm in Manaan.” _

Or, you could let me stay,  _ she thought. But out loud she said nothing. For in all truth, Sheris did not want to feel another world die either. _

XXX

"My lady?" 

Now, on the bridge of the  _ Bright, _ Sheris could not tear her eyes from the planet spinning beneath them. Something about it made her flesh crawl, which was strange because she had always enjoyed Taris before. 

"Set a course for Manaan, Captain Ivo," she sighed. "By Darth Malak's command."

XXX

The giant man had been quiet once, wearing a gray mask and robes, just like any other man, like any other Jedi in the Republic Fleet. The giant man had seemed unassuming then—next to the fire of his wife—but that, Saul thought, had been the true lie.

All the lies were gone now, and the giant man loomed over Saul's desk in Saul's personal quarters, dressed in red cortosis and wearing a black cape, like a mockery of the uniform that had once been the birthright of the man's Senatorial House. His skull was bare, striped with lines that had some mystic significance Saul didn't want to know. His eyes were yellow. And his mouth was gone—replaced with a metal cuff that extended from his nose to what should have been a chin. The man's voice was metallic now, forced through a voder inset in his neck beneath the prosthesis that constantly pumped kolto into the man's rotting flesh, in an attempt to stop any further decay.

"Admiral Karath," the man rasped. "Reports came in this morning from our fledgling Academy. I thought you would enjoy seeing yours in person." His gloved hand extended, holding two sheets of plimsi.

Saul read the first print out, careful to keep his face completely expressionless. 

**Acolyte Karath is a promising young student with excellent potential. She is an avid reader of military histories and shows a sound grasp of strategy. Her spatial reasoning and mastery of abstract cognitive concepts rank her intellectual function among the top quartile of her class—**

"I thought this would please you." Lord Malak had thought nothing of the kind. Saul might have once been the son of a Telosian farmer, but he'd paid his dues in the Core. He knew how the sausage was made.

"I am pleased." It was a lie.

Malak made a wheezing sound through the prosthesis that could have been a dry laugh, in times past. "Your daughter has your gifts. Children are not the only legacy we leave behind, but they are the most… personal." His breath hissed, and the flesh around his yellow-stained eyes crinkled, as if he was trying to smile.

"Selene is my daughter. I am proud of her."  _ She had an early acceptance to Fleet Academy the year you lost your mind, my lord. I sacrificed my own planet to stop a war— _

_ —and it didn't even work.  _

His eyes fell again to the other sheet of plimsi.

**Acolyte Onasi is prodigiously strong in the Force. One of the prime contenders for an apprenticeship, if he continues to live up to his potential.**

**... excellent marks in saber combat.**

**... well-rounded. A natural leader.**

It was difficult to know what was true and what was not, but Saul couldn't help but compare the two. Which, he had to assume, was the true purpose of Malak's unexpected visit to his personal quarters.

_ My daughter was rejected for Jedi training when she was five. They said she had a minor affinity for the Force. The Onasi boy was never tested. Garrett told me that, years ago, when our children played at the same park. Morgana didn't believe in mystics, and Carth was as focused on his career as I was. My husband and Onasi's wife gossiped under the odabink trees, and our children grew as friends— _

_ To think I once told Selene to keep Dustil safe on Korriban.  _

_ I know the attrition rates at the Dreshdae Academy. I've seen the undoctored reports. Intelligence is nothing in a place like that. Revan proposed brute techniques to accelerate training of the Dark Jedi we needed for the war effort. But in the last year, Malak has only given commands to brutish louts like Bandon Agare. Malak wants an army of mad Sith, as mad as he is—and my daughter will never be brutish enough—or strong enough— _

"Admiral?" Malak's hand tapped on the table as if summoning Saul's attention back.

"How is your own protege?" Saul countered. "Mekel... Jin, was it? Doing well, I hope?"

"Not all Sith are meant for greatness." Malak raised a brow ridge. "If they were, we would be hard-pressed to accomplish our goals. Mekel Jin is strong, at least. He will make an excellent warrior."

"Of course." Saul had a sudden memory of Malak smiling with a mouth—both of them sharing tactical reports over a bottle of Corellian wine and a hot meal. Now, Saul kept his office free of such pleasures, because the temptation to drown in them—to drown in anything at all—was far too great.

Garrett Karath had not been on Telos when it was bombed. He'd been on Coruscant. His suicide two days later was a blip in time. One Telosian dying so far from home as not to be counted in the war. Saul had thought Selene was with him on Coru—but she had stayed behind: stayed with friends on Telos at the last instant, instead of attending what was supposed to be Admiral Karath's surrender—along with Dodonna and Sand and all of the other traitors who had followed Revan and Malak to the hell of Malachor itself before turning back.

Dodonna and Sand and the rest had slithered back to the Senate on their knees. 

But Saul had not surrendered. Saul had chosen to stay and fight. He had thought at the time he was making a choice that might cost him Garrett’s love. 

He had not expected it to cost the man’s life. Sometimes Saul wondered if he could have let the bombs fall if he'd known it could mean losing Garrett and their adopted daughter both.

_ Still hope,  _ he reminded himself.  _ You haven't lost her yet. _

But that was war. The Fleet hardened its soldiers too. Taught them the virtue of sacrifice when the cause was just. Breaking the corrupt hold the Senate had on the planets of the Outer Rim, fighting for the freedom of planets like Telos was—was necessary. 

The sacrifice of Telos had to be worth something.

Saul's eyes went to the message he'd written to himself the night before. The message was scribbled in handwriting that barely looked like his. Ever since the months after Malachor, Saul had trouble sleeping. Sometimes, he found himself awake at his desk instead of his bed. Sometimes, even with the coordinates of the Infinite Fleet mapped out before him, scribbled notations regarding his next commands—as if his unconscious mind held its own opinions.

And sometimes just pablum. Positive affirmations.

**Have courage, good man,** this last message had said.  **Our cause is righteous.**

Lord Malak cleared his throat—a wet and muted, rattling sound coming out of the voder's speaker—and Saul realized he had been silent too long, staring at the reports from the Dreshdae Academy, like the worth of two half-grown children held any meaning in this galaxy.

"Apologies." He crumpled the two pieces of plimsi in his hand, balling them together before dumping them in the vaporizer he kept for confidential documents next to his chair. "Thank you for showing me. Is there anything else?" Saul raised his head to stare directly into Malak's insane yellow eyes and realized there was—because the man had one more piece of plimsi in his hand; this one thicker, with rounded edges, like a printed holo-still.

"Just this. Revan Starfire is alive. The  _ Endar Spire  _ held more than just Bastila Shan. The Jedi destroyed my wife's mind and implanted one of their false personalities in its place." Before Saul had time to react to that, Malak continued, driving the metal words through the speakers of his prosthesis like shock bolts.

"And she is not alone on Taris." Malak placed the holo-still in front of Saul.

The holo-still was double-sided and featured what seemed to be a close-up of the Upper City cantina Riik's, with a woman dancing on the bar and a man watching from below. The woman took a blink to recognize. The dark cap of hair suited her, Saul thought, even as his hand holding the plimsi trembled. 

_ Dark hair suits her. So does a lack of Sith corruption.  _ He had forgotten how beautiful she was—how beautiful she and Malak both had been. Beautiful, vital, charismatic—and brilliant. Revan Starfire had been wasted in the Jedi. If she had learned the real art of war, of command; if she had learned true strategy instead of Jedi tricks….

_ She’s alive.  _ For a moment, Saul’s world felt untethered from orbit. The possibilities of what could be done with the Infinite Fleet and her brilliant, tactical mind… nearly equal to his own…. 

Malak preferred to muck about on, sowing terror, stretching Republic supply lines thin. But with Revan’s gifts, they could easily strike along the Nexus route, blazing a swift path to the Core. With Revan commanding half the Fleet instead of Armon Wu, they could grasp the Core in a pincer grip; cradling its very heart.

For a brief time, Saul had mentored Revan. For a brief time, she had allowed it; seeming to absorb every tactic, every technical detail Saul had shared about the movements of ships and men—seeming to heed one of the primary lessons of war: conservation of resources.

Conservation of lives. But then that changed. Oh, how it had changed.

“Well, Admiral?” Malak's hoarse breath made Saul realize it was past time for him to say something.

"What reason could the Jedi have for keeping her alive, my lord?" Alive, but implanted with one of their Jedi brains. Without her mind? Without her own mind, Revan was nothing.

Saul had witnessed her gift, as the Jedi called it—her ability to block a Force-user's natural empathy in battle—although he had his doubts about its long-term efficacy. In the end, they all had gone mad, even her. But he had seen Revan’s prodigious use of Force—once even seen Revan and Malak fall from the burning skies of Althir onto a Mandalorian basilisk and steer the thing, unaided by engines, into atmosphere and a safe landing.

But the Force was a brute instrument compared to the keen subtlety of the Starfire's mind.

_ What a waste. Another thing the Jedi Order has destroyed. _

Darth Malak said nothing. Merely stared at Saul, those damned eyes of his lit like fires from their Force. Saul had seen the man debark covered in gore from his massacre at Telos and Saul had only thought of Garrett and Selene, only thought them safe on Coruscant. Perhaps that had been the moment when Saul himself had crossed the line—from conserving resources to letting them all burn. He had once had a dream of peace, but now he knew the real truth: war was the engine that drove the galaxy, and as its marshall, it was Saul's job to keep the combines fueled and churning: lives were merely more fuel to further their expansion.

"A trap for you?" he ventured finally. "If you would like me to send a squad down to capture her—

"Revan is not your concern." Malak's heavy hand tapped the holo-image again, and Saul glanced down once more, noticing, like an aftershock, the man in the holo looking up at Revan.

Of course. Saul had known this moment would come—that the man would come for him. The galaxy had a sense of irony, bringing those two together: Onasi and Starfire, both products of his mentorship.

Both disappointments in the end.

The man's face was in profile and as inevitable as fallout on Endor. New lines there, as if some time between Telos and now, the pilot had become a man who knew the meaning of sacrifice.

"Carth Onasi." He gave the Sith his steadiest stare, willing himself not to react any more than that. "Did Forn assign him to Revan? Why?"

For Carth had become Forn's creature after Telos—passed over for command of anything larger than a squadron; vanishing entirely from military ranks for a time. Even from the other side of the galaxy, other side of the war, Saul had heard rumors of a breakdown—and then, of course, the man had reemerged, and the messages had begun: burned into the listik grass on Endor, the cliff on Duros, the side of a blasted building on Bothawui—

"Why, indeed? As a test of loyalty?" Malak folded his hands into a spire, tapping his fingers together. "Or… perhaps… faith?"

"Faith." Saul only had faith in one thing now, and that was the Star Forge's black heart.  _ The most beautiful fleet the galaxy has ever seen—if we only had the crews to man them properly, but Malak has promised me men. Malak has promised, and so I must have patience. _

"What would you do with him?" Malak asked. "Your former protege?"

_ Revan was my protege too.  _ Malak himself had been too hidebound, too seeped in the Senate's games, the rarefied military theories they taught the aristocrats to make a good commander. 

Ironically, his Force-spawned madness made him more effective now than he had ever been as a Jedi knight. The man Malak once was had been too prudent to take risks, too focused on preserving life. The man he was now—

_ He sacrificed her to win. He would sacrifice me as well. All of us, even himself, we are only pieces of the whole— _

**We are but pieces of the One, good man. Be a good piece.**

That nonsensical phrase had been repeated in Saul's dream-writing for over a week after Revan's demise, like a declaration of his loyalty to their cause. 

He'd paused too long. "I would show Captain Onasi his son," Saul said. "Show him the man that he and I made."

"And would that break him?" Even without a mouth, the sneer was plain.

Saul knew Malak was looking at the wall behind Saul's desk: at each of the neatly-arranged frames, holo-stills he had ordered taken of every scribbled oath. Words repeated, over and over, written by Carth. Dustil and Morgana—but in his head, Garrett's name was there too. 

"It might make him stop scribbling threats to me on the sides of cliff walls." 

"Hah," Malak whispered. "Hah hah. " 

Xxx

_ The Republic really did dislike the Sith. Mission remembered hating the Sith too. The Sith had been mean on Taris, no question. But... as a computer, you get to see a lot of intel. The Republic weren't exactly saints either. They'd certainly never helped the Wookiees against Czerka. Mission admitted a certain bias there, but facts were facts. Half the Senate owned shares in Czerka—rumored Sith lackey corporation or not. _

_ Memory, Chapter 10 _

A/N 

Ether! I know I’ve started saying “Oh, had it changed,” or “Oh, had it whatever” directly from Identities. It’s funny, the stylistic stuff you start picking up. 

And this is the edited version, where Carth’s entire reason for coming to the cantina is to find Revan. I was trying to retcon in the flashback I from Memory, and I eventually realized I needed to rewrite and retcon it, instead of shoehorning this plot in. Sometimes I like doing a little shoehorning, but this wasn’t working. Thanks, ether for helping me sort out the motivations. And I blame you for Xaset, who is quite quite different than yours. And Saul, who’s heavily influenced, as are the Genoharadan recognizing her. 

Song: time after time, by Cyndi Lauper


	8. Fools, Said I, You Do Not Know

**Oblivion**

**XXX**

 

 _There were five other padawans on the shuttle, besides Sheris: all of them confused, disappointed, and—at least in the case of Zayne—more than a little rebellious._ _  
_ _..._

_Knight Vikor frowned at them. “Keep moving, padawans. I’ve set up a dormitory for you in the lower cargo bay.”_

_“Why?” the Falleen asked. Sheris didn’t know her name then. It didn’t matter, because later, the girl took a new one. “Isn’t there room in the regular dorms? Where is everyone?”_

_All of them could feel it. The ship was nearly empty. Running on a skeleton crew, at best._

_“Just keep moving,” Vikor said._

_After—it took Sheris a year to even wonder. Had there really been orders to save them? Had saving them been an act of kindness? Or one final deed to seal their souls to the dark side of the Force for all time?_

_\-- Memory, Chapter 29_

**Chapter 8 / Fools, Said I, You Do Not Know**

Bastila opened her eyes to blissful, peaceful _silence._

She was lying flat on a hard surface. The ceiling overhead was grayish and cracked. The air smelled dank.

The world was gray and dead. All color had gone from it.

But it was quiet. For the first time in such a long time, her world was quiet.

Xxx

_“Bastila.” Master Lonna Vash smiled in greeting, standing with the other Jedi masters and General Sand, behind the woman like a herd of nervous dewbacks protecting a newborn calf. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”_

I had no choice. _“Of course, Master Vash.” She kept her voice calm._

_In front of her the woman sat in a chair, head bowed, hands folded neatly on her lap. Her hair had started to grow back beneath the kolto bandages; patchy and red. A white scar delineated a section of her skull where the bone graft aligned. The sutures had been removed, and hair had already begun to grow there, covering the worst of the damage._

_Bastila noted that someone had taken off the woman’s hand and leg restraints._

Fools.

_The Jedi masters all murmured their welcomes: Trask Ulgo, Kavar Vakla, C’tok, Lonna Vash, and the recently-arrived Master Arren Kae._

_Master Ulgo put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, pressing it reassuringly. “Bastila, this is Master Sescura Vital, an archivist from the Ossus Enclave.” His voice was hopeful--irrationally so. As if Master Sescura Vital’s persona (over a century dead) could overwrite Darth Revan’s. As if Master Vital’s holocron would be somehow effective on a half-shattered mind; where Master Ugrahal Bi’sta’s and Knight Arabella of the Erosi’s personalities had already failed to take root._

_The woman who was_ not _Master Vital looked up._

 _Yellow-tinged eyes stared into Bastila’s, reflecting her own--her own face--contained in the woman’s like an endless loop--where she looked into eyes that looked into_ her _eyes--_

Please, _came the thought._

_In that moment the thought could have belonged to either of them--or both. Oddly clipped and frightened._

Please.

 _They were both frightened, which should have given her sympathy for the woman’s plight. Made Bastila feel the same pity she had felt on the_ Aleema _for the dark-robed shell she thought she had killed._

_But Bastila had already pitied Master Bi’sta--even pitied Knight Arabella--briefly. She had pitied the whispers of their thoughts she had felt through this cursed bond, before Darth Revan’s screams drowned them out._

_She had no pity left._

Please.

No.

_Those yellow eyes stared into hers and Bastila saw her own features set in an expressionless mask, but beneath Bastila felt her fear swell dangerously close to an emotion the Jedi quite sanely avoided._

_Hate._ I hate. I hate this. I hate you.

_Those yellow eyes glittered. The woman’s lips turned up slightly._

Yes.

_“Master Sescura,” she said formally, already tainted, already complicit with the falsehood; but trying as she had been trained to believe in redemption. “I suppose this may seem a shock, but we need your help.”_

_There was a long pause--long enough for General Sand to smile as if they'd miraculously managed to succeed on the third time, like some child’s errant luck-story. As if an archivist on Ossus had memories more effective at suppressing Revan Starfire’s than a master from the Hyperspace Wars, or a long-dead Jedi bioethicist cloistered on Katooine._

_The best they could do on short notice, Bastila had been told. Whether all Jedi masters carried holocrons of the past on every mission in case someone needed Redemption, or for other arcane reasons of their own, was knowledge a padawan was not privy to be told._

_“I--” the voice croaked on the syllable, but Bastila heard the rest in her mind, the same as the other two times._

Malachor. _That word again, echoing like a scream in her skull._

_The woman sat up slowly, fingers opening and closing like stars--_

_Bastila’s hands grabbed Revan’s a millisecond before the fallen Jedi lunged for her throat--but too late to stop the wave of dark energy that sent them both crashing to the floor. There was a spark of pain as her skull hit the hard durasteel--the weight of Revan’s body jarring against her ribs, the rush of hands and Force as the Jedi all tried to pull them apart._

_A scream rose between them and she realized it was coming from her mouth as well._

_“Hells,” said someone, somewhere behind them. “Sedate her again--”_

_The hypo jabbed into Revan’s arm, but Bastila felt it too--that lassitude, her limbs all heavy, the world slowly fading to black--_

Xxx

_Waking up was like clawing through a nest of-of silken pillows, pulling back the covers to see the light--_

_Those Gamorreans in the sewer--_

Bastila struggled to wake, panic mixing with a drugged flatness, an artificial calm. Something soft like a blanket still surrounded her limbs. Warm air blew on her face. It smelled stale, but sweet as if someone was trying to make the unpleasant bearable. A tiny comfort.

And silence. Blissful silence. There was no voice of a Deralian smuggler in Bastila’s head. No Polla Organa’s thoughts, increasingly loud, peppering Bastila’s every moment with questions, projections, petty commentary, random lurid thoughts about Captain Carth Onasi--

 _The smuggler must be dead._ Later, Bastila would feel guilty for the smile of relief on her lips, the sense of satisfaction. _The woman who was Revan Starfire is dead, and this madness is over._ She had a momentary pause of guilt, remembering the real Polla Organa.

_But the real Polla is safe and well with her family. It is perfectly acceptable to feel relief that Revan Starfire’s journey has ended and I am still alive. My duty is to the Order and the Republic. I must free myself and escape this place--and now I will set myself to that purpose above all others--_

“She's awake. Where's that trank gun, Kandon?” Voice. Female. Ryl-accented. “Keep it ready, just in case!”

“For the sixth time, Jiselle! Brejik said those Jeds are nothing without their magic. She’s got the hummer on. Relax.” Male voice, cheap and hard.

“Wait,” Bastila whispered. She reached for the Force to make the word a command--but her voice felt flat as if there was nothing behind it at all. It was then that she realized what she should have noted immediately: the weight of the neural band on her forehead.

“Kandon? She’s sitting up!”

“Don't get your t’chun bunched.” A man leaned over Bastila's bed. Orange. Twi’lek. It looked like he’d dipped his lekku in red wax. “Hello there, gorgeous. Name’s Kandon Ark. And _you_ are…?”

 _Almost naked._ The coldness on Bastila's skin sank in slowly too. Without the Force everything seemed delayed, subdued. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at being so undone. She sat up, reaching for the loose blanket to cover herself.

“I am Ensign Devarra,” Bastila picked the name randomly. “You will release me at once. And bring my clothes!”

“Jiselle?” Kandon nodded to his companion.

“Ensign,” the woman scoffed. “Right. We’ve got the security droids locked on. Don't try anything stupid like the last one.”

“Lieutenant Sang got herself shot,” Kandon added. “Brejik’s gonna kill me. We were supposed to have four for the race. Now we’re down to three.”

“And that Duros don't look so good,” Jiselle added. “Guy was half dead when we pulled him out of the escape pod through--”

 _Which Duros? One of our crew?_ “Let me see to him, I--”

“You got medical training?”

_They know you have the Force. They have you restrained with neural band._

“I can heal him,” she replied with dignity. “Or her. If you remove… this _thing_ from my head.”

“The race is tomorrow.” Kandon shrugged. “He’ll make it til then at least. You and the kid are the real prizes.”’

“Didn’t know they were making Jedi ensigns now,” Jiselle added. “So, what’s that mean? You fight with lightsabers and serve coffee to the bosses?” She held something that looked like a hilt in her hand, moving forward suddenly to jab Bastila in the ribs.

Her body jolted and she bit back a scream. _Shock stick. She’s using a shock stick on me--she dares--_

“What’s your _name?”_ Jiselle repeated.

“Padawan Lish Kreena,” Bastila gasped, begging a silent apology to her old friend who was hopefully still safe on Coruscant. “Take your hands off me!”

“Lish Kreena?” The man shrugged. “If you like--guess it don’t matter. Imperials are paying a bounty for all of them--we still got enough fish in the game.”

“Well, she looks like Bastila Shan.” Jiselle flicked a lekku carelessly. “Don’t you ever watch the news?”

“No.” Kandon grabbed Bastila by the arm, tugging at her to stand. “Better if she’s a small fish on the brochures anyway. More folks won’t be too spooked to enter. Small bounty, the Empire might even pay up.”

Xxx

“My Lord?” Doctor Zelka Forn peered warily at Vikor from the door of his medix. His voice was loud and exaggerated. “I told you before: there was just the one Republic soldier, and I gave Lady Organa’s people his corpse already.”

“I have a boil I need to be lanced.” Vikor knew he wasn't followed--he was no fool, but this dance annoyed him. “On my ass.”

One side of Zelka’s mouth twitched. “I see.”

Vik reached out his hand and brushed the other man’s jaw playfully. “I’d assume you want to?”

Zelka’s face turned an interesting shade of red for a Human. Almost pink. “Come in.”

As soon as the door slid shut behind him, Vikor pulled the remotes out of his pocket, sending them circling to scan for bugs. He advanced on the other man. “Are you sure you don't want--” the remotes pinged all clear-- “I need to talk to Forn, Zelka. Immediately. In private.”

“You can't just barge in here and--”

“I can. We are clear.” He pulled out the clip of rakghoul serum vials he’d brought to compensate and handed them to the other man. “Get these refrigerated. They’ll last longer.”

“You promised me the formula to make more!”

 _Ungrateful slob._ “And I am trying, but in the meantime, inoculate more kids.” Speaking of kids, Vik suddenly realized they weren't alone. _So busy scanning for Beya’s surveillance I forgot to take a look around the room!_ A bald, hollow-eyed urchin was sitting at a chair by the window with a holo-book, staring at Vik like he had horns. “Stars! You're bringing them home now?”

“He just showed up here. Said some woman sent him.” Zelka shrugged. “He's from the Undercity, I couldn't send him back.”

Vikor sighed and pulled out a credchip. “Here, kid. Maybe you should find yourself--”

“I don't need credits! I have credits!” The kid was furious, kicking out with his feet, and standing up.

 _Brave,_ Vikor thought, a little sadly. It wasn't a trait that boosted longevity on a Sith-occupied world. “You have credits?” he scoffed, glaring at the interloper to stay in character.

“The lady with the mercycore hair gave them to me! I thought she was with the bad guys, but she wasn't. My sister said she'd come back but she's missing. Wrinkle-skin thinks she's dead!”

“Have some more.” He fished in his pockets and pulled out a handful of the local currency. The kid pocketed them greedily but didn't budge.

“I need privacy.” Vikor sighed. “Zelka, why don't you take the child out for ice crema? Something?”

“Fine.” Zelka scowled. “Follow me, Ijo. Let's leave Lord Tio alone.”

“Lord?” The kid squeaked. “Him? He-he’s one of them?”

 _The robes and eye-implants didn’t give you a clue? I should strangle my tailor._ “Means you should do what I say.” Vikor made a 'shooing’ gesture, ushering them both out of the door. “On with you now!”

One advantage, Vik thought, of being Sith. Sentients tended to move quickly when you ordered them. The hiss of the door sliding shut was followed swiftly by blissful silence.

“Mercycore hair?” _Mercy Corps?_ The boy didn't even look old enough to have seen them.

Xxx

The ‘kid’ her captors had referred to was the Ithorian Padawan Elias T’chong, and he nearly gave Bastila away in the first ten seconds after she was carried rudely carried and deposited into the cell next to his.

“Bast--”

 _“Padawan,”_ she interrupted as sharply as possible.

The female Twi’lek, who pushed her into the adjacent cell, activated the containment field.

Elias flushed green, the long stalk of his neck flattening into a servile pose as he realized his error. “Padawan Banaga’tchok,” he corrected, managing to make a name up for her on the spot that was both unpronounceable and Ithorian, instead of Human.

They had obviously had difficulty fitting the neural disruptor on his Ithorian skull, because the thing was wrapped with several layers of security tape, giving him a rakish and confused look. Lights on the tape flashed, indicating a solid seal, but if it could be broken, his Force inhibitor would be far more easily removed than her own.

“Don’t put them in the same cage,” the woman told her companion.

“These ain’t my first Jedi,” the man replied. “Do I look stupid?”

 _Yes,_ Bastila thought to herself, although it was inappropriate to have such thoughts.

[“How are we going to free ourselves?”] Elias demanded when their captors left, closing the door behind them. At least he had the presence of mind to speak Ithor.

[“Can you remove your inhibitor?”] There would still be the matter of the security cage, but Bastila remembered her own escape from the Sith. It seemed centuries ago. She realized she had lost all track of time. _The Republic must think we’re dead--or worse._

[“No. I tried before.”] He held up his hands, and she saw that each stalk of his fingers had been bound to the one next to it with some kind of overlapping net of wire. [“I am not their first Ithorian prisoner,”] he added mournfully.

“We will find an opportunity,” she promised him, sitting down on the cold floor of her own cell and closing her eyes. “For now, we wait.”

They were prisoners of petty criminals who would no doubt make some mistake and allow them to gain their freedom. For, as Bastila had learned, petty criminals were predictable in a way that Sith never could be--

Xxx

_“Twenty-one!” Bastila exclaimed. “Pure pazaak!”_

_“You’re getting better.” Her opponent grinned at her and laid her own cards down--a pair of tens. “But I’ve got a split. Game rules say that gives me another draw.”_

_“The odds of you pulling an ace out of that deck are--” Bastila’s triumph turned to ash as the woman did just that. “Did you… but there was only one left!”_

_“Mmm.” Warm brown eyes crinkled at the edges, and the woman chuckled, rubbing at the bandages wrapped around her head. “You didn’t see me sneak the discard two rounds ago?”_

_“I thought we agreed on no cheating!”_

_“It’s not cheating, more like… instructing.” Her opponent shrugged. “Come on, Nurse Shan, you gotta admit you learned something--” her voice broke off and her head turned towards the doorway. “Hello, Master Jedi. Again. You here to show me the exit yet?”_

_“How is our patient today?” Master C’tok turned formally to Bastila. “Well enough, I see, for a game of cards.”_

_“She is. Yes.” It was wrong for Bastila to feel guilty for lingering so long in the civilian ward. She'd spent another sleepless night dreaming over and over again of Malak’s unmarked face, a cave, some kind of map--and again and again that scream, raging through the Force itself._

Malachor, Malachor.

 _And she_ was _doing her job, being here in the civilian ward: it was her_ job _to assess these trauma patients and their cognitive function. Her friend was one of her patients. Playing pazaak was perhaps unorthodox, but effective._

_“I'm sitting right here,” her friend interrupted. “And I feel fine. You want us to deal you in?” The Deralian smuggler raised her pazaak hand, using it to motion to the Cerean._

_“None of us are wise enough to assess our own condition,” Master C’tok murmured, rather pointedly staring at Bastila and not the Deralian. “I am sure that Nurse Shan is mentally preparing her report, but I require a transcript.”_

_“Are you dumb? I said I feel fine.” The Deralian rubbed her bandaged head. “I want to go home.”_

_“Her mother’s name day is next week,” Bastila added on behalf of her patient--_ friend--

_“I see you’ve become close with our nurse,” Master Kae stood in the doorway next to C’tok, smiling gently. “What is your name?”_

_“Polla.” The woman looked up from her deck, not at all cowed by the sight of two Jedi masters hovering at the door. “Polla Organa, registered smuggler.” She put two fingers to her forehead in a mock salute. “You one of the Jedi who put my brain back together? Thanks.”_

_“The speeder accident,” C’tok murmured to Kae._

_“May I see the chart?” The most enigmatic of all the Dantooine masters took it from the Cerean’s hand. “Head injury. And no Force-sensitivity,” she noted. “At all.” Her face was pale, carved with new lines of concern that Bastila didn’t remember her having before the war._

_The Cerean scoffed. “You still insist that this pet theory of yours--”_

_“You summoned me here to assist,” Master Kae murmured. “Would you ignore my advice?”_

_“So what I don’t have the Force?” Polla interrupted them before Bastila could warn her not to. “I’m not gonna make it in Jedi school. I couldn’t even guess one card--”_

_“Polla.” Bastila put her hand warningly on the other woman’s. “What the masters do is none of our concern.”_

Xxx

_Did I know what they were planning? I should have. It was so blindingly obvious._

It was wrong to feel this guilt for a dead woman who had _never_ been her friend.

 _The real Polla is safe,_ Bastila reminded herself. _And the real Revan Starfire died long ago._

[“What are we going to do?”] Elias asked her from across the room. The distortion from both of their Cage’s energy fields blurred his face into a grayish green blob--obscuring any expression. But the panic in his voice was quite clear. And inappropriate.

“Nothing,” Bastila told him. “Nothing yet. We need to have patience.”

Her fingers plucked uselessly at the neural band around her temples, she and took a deep breath.

A few hours passed in blissful, blessed silence.

Then the explosions began….

XXX

It took longer than it should have for someone to connect Vikor Tio to the correct encrypted line that led to Admiral Forn Dodonna’s flagship. Long enough for Vik to reflect that the Republic might lose the war if they couldn’t even recognize one of their own spies’ access codes.

A slight smile crossed Forn's patrician features as his own came into her view, access lights blinking green as their secure channel (hopefully) established. **“Ah,”** the admiral said. **“I see your work has brought you to Taris. How is my nephew?”**

“Zelka seems to have adopted another urchin.” Vik angled the comm unit towards the back of the clinic and tapped open the hidden panel, revealing the Republic soldiers floating in kolto. Two of them. Both still unconscious and in need of retrieval--if he could bribe the Exchange into breaking the blockade. “I thought it best I deliver my report without him, but he does send his regards. I’m working on these two name day presents for you, but I’m having difficulty arranging the delivery.”

She nodded. **“Delivery from Taris may be quite hard. In addition to those two… did you find… my missing friend?”** Her voice was neutral, but her eyebrows lifted--quite emotive for Forn Dodonna. **“Her name is on a casualty report for the** **_Endar Spire_ ** **that Senator D’Reev released, but the man has lied to us before.”**

 _And will again, no doubt._ But the workings of senators was beyond Vik’s paygrade. “No, I did not. But I found a very close friend of your missing friend. I believe _she_ was your friend once as well?”

 **“Ah.”** High Admiral Forn Dodonna nodded slowly, her even expression changing to a scowl. **“You… have seen my** **_older_ ** **friend with your own eyes? Alive?”**

“I have.” Vikor shrugged. “She’s not quite herself, as you had warned me. Although I have only your word regarding the nature of the link between…” He gave up trying for euphemism. If the line wasn’t secure, he was dead already. “If there’s a Force bond between them, her presence may suggest that your good friend is alive too?”

 **“That bitch made it off the** **_Spire_ ** **alive.”** Forn’s voice was dark, almost a growl. Her polite facade dropped like the mask it had been. **“Remarkable. She has the luck of the damned.”**

“Your… _older_ friend's alive,” Vikor echoed. “Only in the sense that her body is upright and breathing. The woman inhabiting her body appears to be someone entirely different.”

Forn dismissed that with a flick of her hand. “I told you, they made an artificial personality--some Deralian composite--and implanted it in her mind.”

 **“Why Deralian?”** Vik had wondered if it was some dig at Beya, or if the Jedi had just thrown a pin at a galactic map to pick the most remote, backward Outer-Rim planet they could find.

 **“The Jedi Council are nearly as reticent about sharing their details with the Fleet as Revan and Malak were about Malachor,”** Forn said acidly. **“I think Cein knows more. He was there. Him and General Sand. They were the ones who told me about the Force bond between Revan and Bastila.”**

Apparently, Forn thought it safe to jettison all caution. It probably was safe. For _her._ “I tried to warn you something bad was going to happen at Malachor.” An old argument now. “You should have listened.”

 **“We expected Revan to give an order to break the peace--to fire on the Mandalorian ships.”** Forn blinked. **“It was what… she had implied.”**

_And when she told you not to attend the armistice yourself, you didn't suspect a thing?_

Forn must have taken his silence for agreement because her voice was hopeful when she asked him for help. **“If Bastila is found by Malak’s forces, I need you to kill her, Vik.”** She let a breath. **“Or kill Revan. Will killing Revan kill Bastila? Admiral Cein said the Jedi thought it would, but you… what do you think?”**

“I have no way of knowing.” Even after everything she’d done, Vik didn’t want to be the one to kill Rev. They'd never been close, but Vik had respected her once. He'd respected Malak once too, and look where that had led. “I only know what you told me: that the Jedi were afraid to take that risk to Shan before.”

 **“And the Jedi wanted something from her. From** **_Revan.”_ ** The admiral's eyes narrowed. **”Do you know what?”**

 _Beyond keeping Bastila alive?_ He'd suspected. But he would not ask if Forn knew herself. Those Jedi were all dead, and their plan with them. The less Vik knew the better. He'd overseen enough Sith interrogations to realize that. “There's no Revan _there._ No memories. No personality. No _Force_ \--or as little left as to be useless. Whatever they want, I fail to see how it could be retrieved. _”_

 **“It could not. They failed.”** Forn muttered. Her hand drummed restlessly on the table in front of her. **“They failed, and now we have** **_misplaced_ ** **our only hope of defeating Malak on a Sith-occupied world.”**

 _Please don’t tell me more._ Vikor glanced at his comm. “Maybe all is not lost. The Revan shell left the bar with one of your pilots. That one with the song--Carth Onasi--”

 **“What?”** The Human’s voice sharpened. **“Revan is with Carth Onasi?”**

“Not _Revan_ .” _But wouldn’t that be a laugh? Revan and the legendary nemesis of her pet admiral, Saul Karath._ Forn would not appreciate the humor, so Vik kept his jest to himself. “A Deralian smuggler named Polla Organa in is with Carth Onasi. She barely has the Force.” He paused. “She’s brash, outspoken, a terrible shot, and a very good dancer.”

 **“She was dancing with Carth?”** The admiral looked furious. **“Is this some kind of joke to you, Tio?”**

“I observed her in a cantina.” Vik shrugged. “My freelance associate is working on transmitting the footage to the coordinates you and I set up. Judge for yourself. She left with the pilot.”

**“Carth Onasi is quite capable. I assigned him to that mission myself. If he is with her, then perhaps all is not lost.”**

“Did you want me to tell him who she is? I’m sure he’d shoot her himself.” _Better him than me. I’ve got enough dead friends on my conscience._

 **“No!”** She hesitated. **“Not… not yet.”**

“Why did you assign a man like that to watch after Revan in the first place?” _Because you knew he’d kill her?_

She sighed. **“The Jedi had… very specific requirements for Fleet personnel. I warned him to be on his guard, but he had no idea who was on that ship.”**

“Requirements?”

 **“All crew members of the** **_Endar Spire_ ** **were vetted to make sure they had had no previous contact with Revan.”** Forn folded her arms. **“Captain Onasi barely squeaked through their approval committee because of his past--”**

“Yes, I've heard the song.” And seen the framed holo-prints Saul Karath kept above his desk. A strange companion for Revan’s body. “Again, why would you assign a man like that to the _Spire_ in the first place?”

 **“My first choice for the assignment died on Duros. My second choice was grounded permanently in the Tett offensive. Carth’s one of the best pilots we have left. Wasted on a command post, but if things went badly I trusted him to get Bastila out alive.”** Her lips thinned. **“He was never meant to be close to** **_her._ ** **Just how close--”**

“They seemed to be having an argument.” Vikor shrugged. “But I wouldn’t call it a lover’s quarrel. He left the cantina with her.”

**“Watch them. Revan has always inspired loyalty as well--”**

“Truthfully, that was Malak.” _Back when he had charm._

 **“No.”** The admiral shook her head. **“Malak knew all the right words, but it was her we followed. Wasn't it the same for you?”**

“No,” Vikor said. _Rev was a friend, but I always thought she was in over her head. Then after Malachor, I wondered if the Sith had gone insane--or me._

_The first lesson she taught me was never to ask._

Xxx

_“Vik.” Their new ‘master’ didn't move when he entered the room, still facing the stars, the globe of the ice-planet below their ship. “When your shuttle was delayed we feared the worst.”_

_“I arrived in time for the finale,” he snapped. “What have you done, Rev?” His anger felt like a slow burn in his gut, a pressure behind his eyes. His anger felt like a cold, black bath… but it paled next to the sense he had of her. Against the Mandalorians his friend had felt like a shield in the Force: a wall, keeping true horror at bay._

_But now, agony screamed through her like an ever-growing echo, enough to drive a man mad._

_“What have you done?” he repeated._

_“Ended the war.” Revan turned, and her mask reflected his own pale face back at him: sickly, more gray than green, his eyes red-rimmed and shadowed. “Why did you disobey my orders?”_

_Knight Vikor Tio had been tasked to bring supplies to the Rekkiad system._

_Instead, he had arrived with a flock of padawans; all assigned to various positions in the Fleet for the signing of the peace treaty between the Republic and the Mandalorians at Malachor V._

_All assigned to_ _die_ _in the armistice that was a trap for all sides._

_“One of the masters asked me to watch that group of Padawans.”_

_“I ordered you to leave the armistice early and come here with the shuttle full of provisions. Alone.”_

_“Are we still going to call Malachor V 'the armistice,’ Rev?” Vik tried to inject a note of forced casualness, but the coldness in her eyes made his choobs shrivel and his t’chun twitch._

_“Their names were not on my list.” Her mask glittered gold in the light, distorting his own face to look frightened of her. Back then, he’d thought it the light. “Zayne Carrick, Shad Devalin, Sheris Loran, Oojoh Hein, Ghar of the Nagai, Kamlin Karachak--I didn’t choose them.”_

_“Worried about extra mouths to feed on the run?” He forced a laugh. “I brought the supplies too. Where’s Malak?”_

_At the time he'd assumed they would all flee in exile, maybe to some remote ball of ice like Rekkiad, the world their ship orbited now. Even then, he’d thought of deserting his fellow traitors--hopefully before that scream in all of their minds drove him as mad as the wraiths he’d seen in the corridors of her flagship: all their old friends changed to gibbering shadows of their former selves--as mad as Ghar and Kamlin had become last time he’d checked._

_He’d had to tranquilize them both last night._

“Lord _Malak is sleeping.” Revan pushed back the mask, and he saw her ice-white skin, the dark lines around her eyes._

_Later, he would research why the Force altered so many of his fellows as he found the compounds to mimic its effect; but at the time, Vik only felt shocked that the cautionary tales of their old masters had proven true. The dark side corrupted in body as well as soul._

_“Why_ them, _Vik? The padawans themselves are insignificant. But which master asked for them?”_

_“I--” It was odd because Vik could recall the time of day, the view of stars, and the words exactly; but he could not remember the messenger._

_His hesitation must have given her an answer because Revan turned away. “Leave. This is a game above you.”_

_“What about the padawans?” Vik realized then that he should have been frightened all along of a woman who had betrayed them all--and that in saving the padawans, he had only brought them to… to_ her. _Ghar and Kamlin were already insane. How long would it take the rest? “We’re all here now. They could be useful. They’re… strong. Some of them are… strong.”_

_Until that instant, he had never considered that she might kill them. Or kill him. It was in that moment that Vik realized what they had become. For the first time in his life (outside of combat, perhaps), Vikor Tio felt real fear._

_Revan Starfire shrugged with a cold smile. “Would you like to decide?” She pressed a button on her desk and a holo-camera spun, revealing the projections of an empty room, save for the six padawans within. They were huddled together like one of his father’s kath packs. From this angle, it looked like Kamlin was unconscious again. Zayne and Ghar had matching black eyes. Sheris and Shad looked like they were trying to meditate, poor slobs. Oojoh was ripping at his bandage._

_Vik had disarmed them all after Oojoh tried to stab himself._

_“We have limited resources,” she continued. “For now, at least. Limited air. Limited food. For the next few months we are quite vulnerable. We will be hunted if the Republic has any brains at all. Dodonna and her commanders are gone--and they took the supply freighters with them when they deserted.”_

_“They’re only padawans. Some of them have--they all have potential.” Until that instant, it had never occurred to him to wonder for what._

_“Some more than others?” She folded her arms. “I will spare three of your six, Vik. The others...” she shrugged. “You decide which.”_

_His mouth felt dry. “And if I refuse?”_

_A red eyebrow arched. “I can depressurize the room now.” She leaned over the console, watching him carefully._

_“You won’t.” In that moment he thought he knew._

_“Look.” Her voice was still cold as she raised her gloved hand. On the screen in front of them, weeping Oojoh twitched and began to choke. “Ho’Din do poorly in space. Their empathy makes them excellent healers, but mediocre Sith.”_

_“Sith? Wait!”_ How in hells is she doing that? To affect a sentient half a ship away, merely from a holo-image is--is-- _“Don’t! Stop! What are you--what do you mean,_ Sith?”

_Revan’s hand opened, and the Ho’Din boy fell back, still twitching. Zayne and Shad went to comfort him. Kamlin was still unconscious. Vikor noticed that Sheris and Ghar did nothing at all._

_“That’s what this power is.” She shrugged. “But you knew that already. All of us have been using this strength for quite some time.” Her hand rose and pointed in Vik’s direction and he felt a strange tightening around his throat--_

_“Wait!” The word was a gasp, a choke as invisible pressure began to squeeze air from his lungs._

_“Yes?” Revan let go of the Force abruptly, and he collapsed on the floor._

_Vik’s mouth was dry as he made his choice._

_Xxx_

He still saw them in his dreams. That airlock light changing to red. The hands hammering desperately at the window--the three star-spread bodies, drifting into the void of space. Three dead padawans who had never learned the reason why they had been culled from the stock.

Over and over Vik had reminded himself that he had no choice. If his choice had been a battle, Revan would have seen them all dead and barely blinked--himself included--if that was what it took to win. It was the same warrior's choice he had watched her make during the Mandalorian Wars again and again.

 _But it was no battle. She’d already won._ It was a month before he discovered she’d lied about the supplies, that they were desperate for more bodies to man their ships, that every Force-user was a precious resource--only to be wasted against the testing of another Force-user.

It was a month before he realized that she had wasted three of them, testing him.

 _No, she never inspired loyalty in me_. Pity, maybe.

Relief, that he could find ways to keep himself apart.

Of the three padawans who had lived, only Sheris Loran made any mark upon the new Sith order. _And what a mark she became._

Vik wasn’t sure what had happened to the other two. _This is a game above you,_ Revan had said. And so it was. Sometimes he wondered if her test had truly been for _him_ at all--or if she was testing--or punishing--someone else entirely.

“I followed the _cause,”_ he vowed to Forn, not knowing if it was even true--if it had ever been. _I followed my friends. They all went mad. I found a hobby._ “Not Revan _or_ Malak. Revan was a master strategist, but my loyalty was always with Ryl and the Republic. It still is.”

 **“Then you're one of the few.”** The Admiral’s voice was acid. **“When Ryl burns and the Republic is shattered, I’m sure that loyalty will survive with you--even if it does the rest of us no good.”**

 _I do what I can._ Vikor smiled through gritted teeth. “What do you want from me?”

 **“I want you to kill her.”** Her cold expression reminded him of Revan’s. **“If I order you to do so. Until then, I want reports.”**

“Malak has assigned Davad Arkan and Beya Organa to kill her already.”

 **“Then find Bastila before they do,”** she snapped. **“Get both of them past the Sith blockade and offworld--but if you cannot--”**

“I sense a trend.” He shrugged. _I’ll do what I can, but my reports are worth more than a mind-wiped shell. And Battle Meditation is only effective if you use it. Without me, your forces can’t even_ find _the Sith Fleet._ “I’ll warn your Captain Onasi, Forn. From what I saw, the man has no idea who she is.”

From what he'd seen, the man had eyes for no one else. _Irony._

 **“Don’t tell him.”** Forn frowned. **“Above all--do** **_not_ ** **tell him! Not yet! I-I’m not sure what he would do.”**

 _What someone should do. Put dear old Rev’s body out of its misery. Poor Bastila._ And yet, Vik hadn't done a thing except dance with a Deralian who'd threatened to twist his choobs.

He wondered if he should warn Forn about the rumors that Malak was considering an orbital strike on Taris. _But what could she do? What can I do except make sure not to be here when that happens?_

 **“Give Zelka my thanks,”** Forn added, as Vik was still deliberating. **“And you’re right. We may need to set up another point of contact on this planet. There are some forces here who oppose the Sith--”**

“Don’t tell me!” he interrupted.

 **“I wasn’t going to.”** She raised a glass to her lips and took a sip. Vik bet it was nothing more than water--Admiral Dodonna had always been the most disciplined of all the commanders.

Vikor had been a mediocre Jedi. He was an apathetic Sith, who knew in his bones there were two reasons he was still alive: his family’s wealth and influence in the Mid Rim, and his lack of perceived ambition. As a Sith, he was mediocre enough to survive where the more ambitious died--a quality that made him an excellent Republic agent.

Xxx

The armor was a little big on Mission, and Polla had to adjust its seams in order to get the aluchrome to flow over the adjustable joints; but in the end, she got the Twi’lek kid dressed, despite the girl’s protests that the rig smelled like ‘fried Human sleemo.’

Clanking along next to her, Carth was silent. He'd wanted Polla to wear the armor, which was ridiculous, because he was the one in the Top Ten Most Wanted on Taris.

“I got up here with my stealth belt,” Mission argued again, voice echoing through the armor’s outlet. “Could totally work going down.”

“If it didn't, you'd be defenseless,” Polla argued. “Besides. We pulled this off before. They’ll just think I'm some big bad Sith. It's no problem.”

“That could be handy,” Mission said. “I guess.” She was fiddling with the vibroblade set on the armor’s side with a magnetic clip.

Polla resisted the urge to tell her to stop before she cut herself. The kid wouldn't appreciate it.

“Just be ready for anything,” Carth warned them both.

“I am.” Polla cocked one gun from the pilfered armor and then the other, setting each in her belt.

“Uh…” Carth frowned. “Give those to me, okay?”

“Because…?” She frowned.

“When was the last time you saw a Dark Jedi with a blaster?” His smile faded. “You did see them, didn't you? Those Dark Jedi friends of yours in the Undercity?”

“I did see them.” Polla shrugged. “I gave them rakghoul serum. Then my cousin scared the frack out of me. And that guy… Davad… he was an asshole.”

 _Run._ It was like she could still hear his voice in her head.

“Then you know.” He was glaring at her again.

“She was my cousin, Carth.” The whole thing made Polla feel funny inside. “I guess she's evil now?” _Poor Beya. She looked like shit._ “Is there some kind of counseling, or deprogramming or... something? What… what makes them like that?”

She couldn't put words to how it had felt. Like noise in her head. Like a coldness, like ice cracking under her and underneath--nothing but blackness.

He snorted, incredulously. “You’re kidding, right?”

“We should move,” Mission interrupted, voice muffled behind the helm. “Now, guys.”

Polla handed the blasters to Carth. Just in… just in case he was right.

“Mission?” The girl had extracted the vibroblade and was examining it, still unretracted, in a way that suggested she didn't know how it worked. Her hand hovered dangerously close to the button that would extend a blade into her ribs if she didn't shift the angle. “Can I see that?” _Before you stab yourself?_

“Sure.” The girl handed it over and Polla twirled the hilt. Weight was funny. It had been ages since she'd--

_Ages since that one week when I was fifteen and I took that summer class in melee combat--_

_Click._ The blade extended out from the hilt. It would be weak along the extendable plates, of course, but short of any close combat with something stronger--

_A perfect blade for beating up drunks and subduing local unrest. Cheap. Durable. Dulled edge, meant more for bludgeoning than the cut._

She gave it a few experimental twists, trying to sort out the weight. The balance felt off. Felt wrong.

“It's a sword!” Mission enthused. “Thought it was some kind of shock stick.”

“It's a sword.” Polla nodded. “How about I keep this one, okay?”

“Sure.” The girl glanced nervously down the street. “Hey, I mentioned we should hurry, right?”

“Yah.” Carth’s voice sounded metallic and muted through his helm’s speaker. “Try not to stab anyone, soldier.”

“No promises.” _Soldier?_ Was that a downgrade from ‘beautiful?’ “We're making a stop first.” Polla was pretty sure she knew where they were--pretty sure she remembered the way. She clicked the blade closed again and shoved it into the pocket of her robe. “Gotta do a good deed first. Okay?”

“A good deed?”

Hells, Onasi was a suspicious one. “I have a vial of that don’t-turn-into-a-zombie-and-die serum left. Thought maybe I could find it a home?”

_And that creepy Twi’lek wanted to meet up at some droid store. Well, frack him. I'm sick of Sith._

“You want to sell rakghoul serum?” Carth’s voice sputtered, and Polla could imagine his face turning red with fury under that armor. “Now?”

“No. Idiot.” She rolled her eyes. “Zelka Forn? That doc of yours? He said he wanted a vaccine, right? To help people?”

“You want to help people?”

Suddenly, what Polla really wanted to do was deck him for sounding so fracking surprised. “We have plenty of credits already, thanks to me. I don’t know if you know what that… _disease_ does to sents, but I saw and it… it’s bad. Of course I want to help.”

“Polla’s right,” Mission added. “Me and Zaalbar, we got some of that vax and most of the Beks, too, but it don’t always work if you keep getting bit, and those things are gross.” Her voice dropped a little. “Big Z, he don’t seem to mind, he can fight them all day, but I used to have this friend, Usad, and he got bit once and blam--” She snapped her fingers. “Instant slobbering creepazoid.”

“I saw.” Carth’s voice was a ghost. “Saw some dead ones. I know it’s bad, I just didn’t think you--”

“Thanks.” Polla snorted. “Nice confidence there, Flyboy.”

“Thank _you.”_ He turned and actually looked at her--or at least that was the direction his faceless visor turned. “You… I-I mean it.” He gave a chuckle that sounded funny through the helm’s voder. “I guess we’ve all been through a lot here. Let’s start over. I’m Carth Onasi, Republic pilot. And you are…?”

“Polla Organa.” She matched his teasing banter. “I’m from Deralia.”

“You don't say.” Humor tinged his voice. She could imagine his smile. “On the Rim?”

“That's right.” She grinned at him, adjusting the lieutenant’s hat on her head in a mock salute. "I grew up on a kissra sheep farm on Derra. That's the biggest continent. We lived in the middle of it. It was boring, and I knew that someday I'd get off that rock. I always knew I'd have this grand destiny and meet a handsome pilot…."

"Ah, so you do think I'm handsome! Finally, you admit it!"

"And vain," she muttered. Weird, talking to someone wearing a mirrored visor, because all Polla could see was her own reflection, speaking of vain. The light made her eyes look almost… green. "Let's get this serum back to the doctor. I hope you realize he's gonna pay us in gizka or something equally worthless. The Exchange guy offered us a better deal but we have to make these sacrifices for the bloody fracking Republic."

This time he actually laughed. "Hey, you signed up to this mission, sister!"

Polla made a face. "I had a head injury, it shouldn't count. It was under duress or something."

The reflection of her own face smirked back at her from his armor: smug and secure. The way the visor distorted made it look like her chin was dimpled.

 _Mirrors are bad._ The thought was errant--like it had meant something once.

Polla could no longer remember what.

Xxx

Zelka Forn was not crazy about hosting a Dark Jedi in his back room with the wounded Republic soldiers--even if the man was a spy for his aunt, Forn Dodonna. For that reason, he could almost feel his blood pressure increase exponentially when two Sith patrollers and another Dark Jedi swept into his waiting room, hooded and as imperious as if she owned the place.

This is it. _Dodonna’s bringing me down. Her and Vikor Tio both. If I'm lucky it’ll be fast--_

He spared a quick thought for that poor kid from the Undercity he'd settled in his own apartment with a cake of ice cream and some vids. When Zelka didn't come back… _guess he can just fence my possessions. At least he's not here to get killed too._

“Hey!” The Dark Jedi pushed back her hood. Piercing green eyes squinted at him. Her nose was incongruously perky and her bone structure too delicate for the evil of her profession. It took Zelka, who rarely forgot a face, a moment to place her, because smiling so confidently, she looked like an entirely different person than the bewildered Republic coma victim he’d so recently seen. “Doc, you were looking for rakghoul serum, right?”

“I… only for research.” She’d been with that Republic pilot. _But she was Sith all along?_ “An exchange of goods for services isn't breaking any laws, my lor--”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Here.” She grinned and dropped a single yellow ampule of the precious vaccine on his desk. “Picked some up in the Undercity. No need to reward me, but I wouldn’t say no if--”

 _“Polla!”_ One of the armor suits snapped. The voice was male. The other suit giggled, distinctly female. Small for a Sith trooper.

“No need to reward me,” the green-eyed woman repeated. “We're going back down there now. But maybe if I find more, you’d pay, or help us out--see, we need a way off this rock--”

“Excuse her.” The male voice coughed, metallic behind the helm. “It’s us, Doctor Forn. We… we met you before. This is just a disguise.”

“Oh.” _But there were two of you. Now there are three?_ The smallest Sith trooper’s helm was misshapen, as if the alusteel had molded to a non-Human skull. Following local traditions, the Sith didn’t usually have non-Human patrollers. “You’re… in disguise.”

“You’re a smart doc.” The smaller suit of armor giggled again.

“Ah.” Voice from the door to his operating room. “I didn’t realize you were expecting more visitors, Zelka.”

 _Vikor? Hells!_ Zelka felt as frozen as a spiderroach in light. What if the Jedi thought he was collaborating with the Sith? What if the Republic spies thought he was collaborating with the Sith? Either could kill him just as easily--

“You.” The green-eyed Republic refugee masquerading as a Sith-- _or Sith masquerading as a Republic refugee--_ imparted the one word with a fury that made Zelka's blood run cold. She stepped forward, putting herself between the two guards and Vik, and folded her arms, voice hardening. “You again--from the bar. Were you following me, sleemo? Because I still don’t know you and I’m still not interested.”

“Not at all.” Abruptly, the proud Twi’lek seemed to be staring at the ground. “Do you… require assistance?”

“Do I look like I require assistance?” She jerked her chin towards one of the armored hulks next to her. “I’ve got these guys as back-up.”

“So I… see.” Frowns made grooves deep in Vikor’s face. “What are you--?”

 _“Not_ that it’s any of your business, but this doc said he needed rakghoul vaccine. I just happened on some extra, so….” She shrugged. “Don’t you have more women to hit on or whatever it is you Dark Jedi do in your spare time? Buzz off!” The intensity of her glare was unnerving. “And just so we’re on the record here: I'm _not_ going to meet you at your creepy droid store _or_ that hotel either.”

“Hotel?” One of the armor suits broke in. “What--”

“Of course.” Incredibly, Vikor Tio backed down, literally backing toward the door. His arm brushed her shoulder in his haste to leave, and the woman took a step back. “Perhaps another time.”

“Not if I see you first!” the Sith called after his retreating back.

“Polla!” One of the armored figures grabbed her arm. “Don’t overdo it.”

“If it’s like the vids they can just… electrocute us or something before we can blink, right?” The door had closed and Polla sagged back, leaning on the armored guy’s arm. “Can’t show fear. Never back down.”

“Thank you… for the serum.” Zelka was confused, but still breathing, which was better for his patients, at least.

“Yeah,” the green-eyed… Sith or spy or whatever she was nodded. “Take care of yourself, doc.”

XXX

The tracker had latched onto the fabric of her sleeve. The woman Revan had been once would have noticed it immediately.

Vik had to assume that the lack of indignant shouts coming after him meant _this_ fake Deralian had not--at least not yet. He knew Beya had her own ways of tracking; but those had obviously failed, as Revan was still alive. Or, perhaps, Beya Organa felt her loyalty as tested by Malak’s order as Vik did by Dodonna’s.

 _I don’t care if Rev dies,_ he told himself. _I just don’t want to kill her. If the day comes and there’s time, I’ll just tell the the good captain and watch him do it._ That had been him, of course, in one set of armor. Vik thought he recognized the voice of that kid Twi’lek they’d left the bar with in the other.

A light rain had begun to fall. His comm pinged.

When he saw the message, he began to laugh. _From the jaws of one sarlacc pit to another._ But he quickened his steps all the same. It would not do to be late.

XXX

She was insane. He’d known that. But Carth had never realized Polla had the heart of a rock-lion until he watched her stare down that yellow-eyed Twi’lek, putting on airs like she was the man’s boss.

They’d left that doc still stammering at her and were headed toward the closed elevator to the lower levels now, at least according to the map on his helmet’s nav-screen.

“That was badass!” Mission enthused, for the fifth time.

 _That Sith was working with Doc Zelka Forn,_ Carth thought blackly. _So the Republic soldiers Forn said he was helping earlier… are probably all dead._

He hated feeling so--so helpless. If the kid hadn’t been there, he might have done something--he _should_ have done something, but he had to keep Mission safe. Not to mention what trouble Polla would get up to with that vibroblade. “Did he seem like he knew you, Polla?” Carth had thought so, the man had barely looked at her face. But then, maybe that was why it had worked--maybe he’d just seen the robes and her escort. There could be any number of logical explanations--he’d been hitting on her before in that bar, maybe that subservience was feigned, maybe this was still all a trap--

“Course he knew me. From the bar, remember? And I just did a good deed.” Polla Organa sounded upset. “Thought you’d be proud of me, Flyboy.”

“That doc’s working with the Sith.”

“Maybe. And maybe they’re the ones with labs getting the vaccine to the people who need it.”

“They’re not,” the kid muttered from Polla’s other side.

“Well, that guy Doc Forn said he would help.” Her face tightened. “We do what we can, right? So maybe… maybe he _can_ help and we can help him.”

“Maybe.” Her absolute faith was like something Carth wanted to believe in, even if it couldn’t possibly be true.

“Anyway, Wookiees are good in a fight, right?” Polla had already moved on. “So, what we’re gonna do now is, get down below, rescue Zaalbar, find that Vulkar base, then rescue Bastila Shan--”

“Not so loud.” The streets were deserted at this time of night, but a hovercam buzzed overhead, making Carth uneasy.

“--and then get off this rock.” Polla finished. “Get us all off this rock. Kid, you want to get off this rock?”

“Are you calling Taris a rock?”

“Was trying to be polite!” She shivered, glancing up at the sky. “Place gives me the creeps.”

Carth gritted his teeth. “Coming up on the elevator now--” At least his warning shut them both up.

Polla stepped forward, so she was leading the pack. Again, he wondered how she made such a simple movement so graceful.

The elevator’s entrance was guarded by two uniformed grunts, heavily armed and Human, like most of the blasted Imperials on this planet.

“We are going… down.” Polla extended her hand, pointing at the guard nearest the controls. She waved her hand. “Immediately. Please.”

 _Please?_ Suddenly, Carth was glad for the visor hiding his face.

“Of course… uh--” One of them was stammering and the other was typing something into a datapad.

Carth didn't like the look of that, but short of shooting them, he didn't know what to do. They were in plain view of a market square; the shouts from vendors and shoppers less than a hundred meters away.

“Move,” Polla interrupted, when they didn’t. “Out of my way before I gut you. Now.” Both troopers stepped to the side. The Deralian stepped forward a millisecond before the lift’s doors even opened--and yet open they did--just in time for her to step inside.

Mission was right on her heels, and Carth followed, trying to keep calm.

“You are dismissed,” Polla barked, pivoting on one heel and glaring at the guards behind them. “Leave your posts before I--”

The doors slid shut and the lift began to descend.

“That was _awesome!”_ Mission exclaimed.

“You’re insane, soldier,” Carth muttered. But a part of him was laughing.

Xxx

Deep enough underground, the roar of the machines began, and the rush of waters and feel of moss underfoot was almost like home.

Zaalbar had found this place long ago, when he had first escaped the slave-shackles that had bound him to Beeron, a Czerkan businessman, who wanted to wear a Wookiee on a lead behind his platform like a Human walking a pet kath.

The vaulted underground caverns held three rooms large as small forests, each with an orb fastened in the ceiling like an artificial sun. One held ground thick with stunted trees. Another, a vast lake. And the third held a plain of grass thick as a Wookiee mother’s fur. He had taken Mission here a few times to show his city-cub places where things could grow, but she had only wrinkled her nose and told him the air smelled funny and she didn't want to ruin her shoes.

But still, he had made her promise to come here to be safe if they needed to at the end of all things.

He had easily lost the murderers far above, but Zaalbar still waited long enough for the rotting scent of dark magic to abate above before he began his climb back to the Lower City surface.

Because Mission had not come with the rope, Zaalbar had to climb in the place with the only ladder to these underground tunnels. The Gamorrean gang who lived above thought the pits were haunted by the ghosts of their dead that they disposed of within, so they guarded it lightly. Beyond their territory was the realm of the Black Vulkars, a place he had explicitly forbidden Mission ever to go near since the last time she had returned to their den laden with their stolen stocks of medicine. The Vulkars might be the enemies of their own tribe, the Beks, but they were still also foes of the upper-city dwellers just as the Beks were, and cutting their roots would hurt the entire tree.

Zaalbar had tried so hard to impart this lesson to the cub, but she danced away from it at every turn.

“Help!”

A girl's voice, young, interrupted his thoughts when he was halfway up the ladder. Zaalbar quickened his pace to the top.

He did not catch Mission’s scent but his heart skipped a beat all the same. The cub was not her, but she was still a cub alone and probably doing some rash thing without his guidance.

“Help!” came the cry again--emanating from one of the tube-like tunnels near the Black Vulkar base.

It might not be Mission, but there were other lost cubs here. With a soft roar, Zaalbar ripped the screen over the tube off its hinges and ventured within.

“Help," she whispered at the end of the corridor, hair like muddy twigs, white-rimmed Human eyes rolling in panic. Her captors had tied her to the grates on the wall, feet and hands both, and her hairless limbs looked patchy and cold. Seeing him, her eyes widened. “Oh!”

“I will help you,” he promised, even if she could not understand.

Her eyes widened at his approach--and then suddenly, she shook her head violently from side to side, limbs twitching as if she was beset by tach-madness, or had drunk fermented sap.

“Watch ou--”

Her yowl cut short--as something sharp stung Zaalbar’s back, electrifying every neuron.

And then the world ended with a chuckling, snuffling sound and the scent of stinking Gamorreans--as well as a familiar, mocking voice.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the carpet without that sabotaging, stealing little kid. Knew at least one of you’d come slithering up from that hidey-hole one of these days. What you hiding down there? My chains?”

 _Brejik,_ Zaalbar thought with dismay. _I told Mission we should not have taken the jewelry--_

Xxx

“Two armor-suits like he asked. What’s your fracking problem?” Polla’s voice cracked with indignation, and Carth was having a hard time not getting pissed himself. “It’s not like we need your Bek guys to win the race, but the odds are better if there’s four of us racing. I was tweener champion in the Deralian semi-finals three years in a row--”

A fact she’d mentioned to Carth several times already, but he’d noticed the details kept changing.

_Details keep changing? You know she’s a liar, Onasi._

They hadn’t made it ten meters down the tunnel before two Hidden Bek gang members dropped down out of the ceiling and waved them on, disrupters charged and blinking--down a side-corridor, and through a reflector field cut into the wall, then down a few levels to this vast, cavernous space that seemed to be their new Hidden Bek base.

Now, Gadon’s sightless eyes stared at Carth, insets of silver rimming the orbs. Impossible to tell what--if anything--the man could see. Zaerdra was the one yelling at Polla while Mission stood sulking in the background.

“Maybe...” Polla’s voice had dropped to a whisper that made the hairs on his neck rise. “Maybe I should go see if these Vulkars can give us a better offer.”

_You know she's a liar, but she's damned good at being intimidating._

Gadon’s blind eyes turned toward her and he frowned thoughtfully as if he was trying to figure something out. “Zaerdra, what would be the harm--?”

“I told you, stranger, we’ll sponsor _one_ of you.” Zaerdra’s calmness reminded Carth of a trainer he’d had back at Fleet Academy--that calm voice, but her no meant no. “I mean _him._ No offense, but I don’t know you from anyone, lady.”

“I’m the best hope you’ve got of winning!”

“Polla,” Carth interrupted. “I’ve got this.”

“What about Zaalbar?” Mission demanded. “You guys gotta rescue him!”

The Vulkars had sent a message to the Beks less than an hour before: one of Zaalbar’s dew-claws, wrapped in a scrap of bantha-hide. Carth thought Zaerdra had been almost cruel to show it to Mission.

“We will,” Zaerdra assured her. “But after the race.”

“Everyone in Jayvar’s Cantina was brutally slaughtered. There are reports of Sith lords roaming the Lower City like an invading force. I'm not even sure we should race at all.” Gadon rubbed his temples. “If what you're saying is true and one of those survivors _is_ the Jedi Bastila Shan, no one will live long enough to collect a reward for turning her in. The higher up the food chain you go with those types, the crazier they get. They don't need to hold up their end. Ajuur and his staff _worked_ for them and got slaughtered--”

“They’ll pay for that,” Polla said coldly. “One way or the other.”

Gadon’s head turned in her direction and the lids around his orbs widened as if she’d shocked him.

_You know she’s a liar, Onasi, but she’s damned good at intimidating our allies and our enemies. Is that what the Fleet wanted her for? A smuggler who could tell bald-faced lies in fifty different languages?_

“Which Sith was it?” Mission demanded. “Do you know?”

“Bandon Agare, they're saying.” Zaerdra grimaced. “One of the new ones.”

“Zae….” The old man swoop jockey cleared his throat. “It… it doesn’t matter.”

“That frackster is sooo dead,” the girl vowed, with so much viciousness that it made Carth’s chest ache. _She's too damn young for this._

“The Wookiee’s in the Vulkar base.” Polla frowned. “And this Shan Jedi is there too, right? Let's get them out. Then we'll race. If Shan’s not a prize the Sith will have no reason to be there.”

“Then we won't need to race,” Carth muttered under his breath--only to get a Deralian elbow in his ribs in return.

“You’d do that?” The little Twi’lek sounded awestruck. “You'd save Zaalbar, Polla?”

“Sure.” The smuggler smiled at her. “You said before you thought you knew a way in, right? When you were talking about that speeder accelerator?”

“Yeah!” Mission nodded. “They don't even lock the front entrance. Just this one guard and his pet, Fluffy.”

Carth remembered this conversation. “The rancor?”

“Rancor’s like a big lizard?” Polla shrugged. “We’ll figure it out.”

_She's a liar, but she acts like she believes every word._

“What you're proposing is madness,” Zaerdra said flatly. “I won't have Mission’s life risked on such a scheme.”

“Hey!”

“Then give us another fracking guide.” Polla was already pacing away, hand on the hilt of that vibroblade she'd picked up, like that was a threat. “I'm not saying we should assault them head-on… but they can be reasoned with, right? What do they want for Zaalbar?”

Gadon cleared his throat. “The return of some medical supplies and personal items. _Someone_ has been raiding their storage units for several months. Breaking the treaty we'd established.”

“Wasn't my treaty,” Mission muttered. “And they were stupid not to change the codes quicker.”

“Do you still have the personal items?” Polla asked the kid.

“Brejik’s body-chains?” The girl snorted. “They weren't worth much. Half of that stuff wasn't even real.”

Polla sighed. “Will they take credits for Zaalbar?”

“If the gangs establish a precedent of ransoming each other's soldiers whenever we have a conflict, it's bad for everyone.” Gadon shook his head. “We can't buy him back, Mission. You know that.”

“I can.” The smuggler twisted her top knot. “Kidnappers are the worst kind of assholes.”

“We can't give you the credits--”

“I _have_ the credits.” Polla’s voice was arctic. “We’ll go buy Zaalbar back, and see about that Jedi too. Then we’ll come back here and win your speeder race.”

_You know she’s a mercenary liar who keeps talking about credits... but she keeps giving them away._

Carth wondered if she wasn’t the most confounding woman he’d ever met.

The Twi’lek woman flushed purple. “That's insane--”

“Zaerdra. We can't stop them.” Gadon’s hand reached out and touched her arm with accuracy that made it clear his implants weren't just for show. “If you offworlders want to negotiate with the Vulkars we can't stop you.”

“But Mission--”

“Makes her own choices.” The gang leader sighed. “She went to them for help, Zaerdra. Not us.”

“Because it was Sith,” the girl muttered. “You always said--don’t get involved with Sith. I knew you wouldn't help.”

“I'm pleased you listened.” Gadon patted her shoulder. “At least a little. Although it seems you didn't need my instruction.”

“Give us some explosives,” Mission told him, tilting her head up and smiling. “In case the negotiating don't work out.”

XXX

“What the hell was that?” Gadon’s sensors registered the movement of his lover’s headtails twisting like beams in a storm due to her agitation. As if he couldn’t gage her fury just by the sound of her voice. “You just let Mission walk away with… who _were_ those people?”

“You seemed to think the man was trustworthy before.” He kept his tone mild. Did she think he was completely blind?

“That was before he came back with that crazy woman! Who does she think she is?”

“I'm not sure,” Gadon replied, because to admit anything else would make him seem insane.

The framed holo-images he kept of the dead were the first thing he had Zaerdra put back on the wall at every new hide-out. Now, his head turned toward the wall of black squares, faces indistinguishable to his sensors, but etched in his memory.

The largest square was the group portrait of their Jedi saviours, the Jedi Mercy Corps. Zaerdra had still been a Mandalorian sympathizer when it was taken. She’d never met them personally.

She had no idea.

 _I can’t tell you I just let your foster daughter leave with either our worst enemy or the best chance we’ve got to put Brejik to bed for good. If I did, you’d think I was insane--or cowardly. I am cowardly. I won’t risk_ our _lives by crossing her._

Gadon let out a long breath. _Only a madman would cross the Knight Revan I knew. And what she became after that--_

He'd heard the rumors about the duplicate--everyone on Taris had. But that was no duplicate. That voice was unmistakable. Gadon still heard it in his dreams.

_“They'll pay for what they did to your school, Gadon Thek.”_

_No anger in that voice at all, just a calm statement of fact, as the leader of the Jedi Rebels raised her gray mask and stared at him with her greener-than-green eyes._

_“The Mando’ade will pay. I promise you.”_

Xxx

Bandon had always admired beauty. Not to possess, but to see.

When they’d been padawans together on Dantooine he’d merely wanted to see her more often.

Back then, Padawan Bandon Agare had tried to impress Padawan Bastila Shan in a half-dozen useless ways. He had offered her flowers, bested her at sparring, deliberately lost to her at sparring, saved her a seat at morning meditations, given her his goreapple tart on Goreapple Fourthday. None of those time-old rituals had worked, of course; but in the purity of her response, Bandon found an example to follow.

He had found a beauty in the Jedi Code, led by her example--before Arkan and Malak came and righted him to the true path. Exposed beauty for sham it was.

In the year since, Bandon had often dreamed of being able to show his first love the same dark clarity--but what if he never had the chance?

 _No._ Denial raged hot in his breast. _She can’t be dead. Bastila Shan cannot be dead._

His old master had always said that all things were the will of the Force. Well, Bandon had mastered the Force--had he not? Therefore, all things that the Force commanded were _his._

_She is mine. And it is my will that she is not dead._

His old Jedi master would have chided a padawan for magical thinking, but Bandon had watched him die. Very slowly. It seemed an age ago.

When Davad revealed his prize to Bandon, Bastila Shan had still been unconscious. Had been, Davad had told Bandon, for nearly a week. As if it was a test, he had then left Bandon alone in the interrogation room with her unconscious body. A weaker Sith like Arkan might have been tempted to… _take_ his entitlement, Bandon thought. Indeed, the depraved parts of his mind wondered if the man had taken her--although he had never seen Arkan show a carnal interest in any woman save one--and _that_ was a thing of whispered rumor. Hearsay. Too laughable to even be true, that a craven fool like his purported master could actually be preferred by Darth Revan over the powerful Darth Malak.

Bandon Agare had only watched Bastila sleep. The fool Arkan should have delivered Shan _immediately_ to Malak, but he had his own game. And Bandon, fool that he had been, had become complicit if only to watch her dreaming face. If only for the fantasy that his would be the first face she would see upon waking.

He would always cherish that.

So far, Arkan’s game seemed involve alienating their master and dooming himself to a messy death.

And for what? A mind-wiped shell that used to be Darth Revan? Bandon had only seen the thing on the _Endar Spire_ for a moment before he had the pleasure of gutting Trask Ulgo, but her slack-jawed face would forever amuse his dreams.

The... thing had actually _fired_ upon him. With a _blaster._

And missed.

Now, Bandon was only playing along with Davad to find out why Revan still lived--and, if that footage from the Upper City cantina could be believed--walked the streets of Taris with arrogant impunity.

Thus, he obeyed Davad’s summons to return to the Lower City bar where he’d recently slaughtered so many wastrels like so much chaff.

 _Jayvar’s,_ the cantina sign flashed overhead. The door was bent back, half off its hinges. From the amount of blood-stained tracks on the ground, the scavengers had been and gone.

In another week or two, Bandon suspected some enterprising sentient would reopen the place ‘under new management.’ The underworld was the same galaxy-wide, and these pathetic null sentients were predictable.

The soft whisper of voices drew him to the backroom of the cantina.

“Nice of you to join us,” Beya Organa drawled, as he took in her allies--or co-conspirators. Xaset Terep. Vikor Tio. Nicosia Ree. And Davad Arkan. Of course.

“Of course.” He strode into the room, pleased to see Nicosia flinch. She still remembered his victory over her at Bothawui. _Good._ “You need my assistance? Because Lord _Malak_ just requested me to seek you out for an update on your progress.” It was a lie, but Bandon was sure that Malak would have instructed him to check on Revan’s capture, if his lord hadn’t had other important concerns, like winning the war against the Republic.

“Did he? Well. Now that you’re here, we may all begin.” Davad leaned back against the wall, arms folded, yellow eyes raking over Bandon with nearly palpable hatred.

“We’ve found evidence of a plot,” Beya murmured softly. “Against Lord Malak himself. Someone wants to use the Dark Lord Revan’s amnesiac body as a figurehead to rule the Sith themselves.”

“Who?” Nicosia demanded. Slavish loyalty glittered in her golden eyes. Her pink skin flushed and the air smelled like burning flowers. “Who would dare cross Lord Malak?”

“Someone soon to be dead,” Vikor Tio grinned at the prospect.

“That is what we intend to find out,” Davad murmured. “We of the inner circle. His most trusted allies.”

 _Fool,_ Bandon thought smugly. _You still think Lord Malak trusts_ you.

_Xxx_

“Smik! Yo! Smik!” Mission yelled his name across the darkened room’s expanse. Her voice echoed across the domed ceiling, lit softly by overlights. “We need to talk to youuu!”

“I thought we were gonna break in.” Polla glanced at Carth, who seemed as perplexed as she was. But Mission hadn’t given them the chance--barreling ahead and leading them here without explaining any of the plan at all.

“This is faster. They might be torturing Big Z! Besides. You got credits, right?”

“Aren’t we going to wake up the rancor?” Polla always got xeno-taxonomy confused, but from the way everyone was acting, a rancor wasn’t just something her da used to call her when she was grumpy on Seventhday. Mission had said they were big and dangerous and had lots of teeth.

 _You cannot win._ The thought echoed in her head strangely.

_The frack? Like I’m gonna fight a rancor?_

The chamber in front of them was dark and cavernous, far more than the tiny access tube they were standing in now. They couldn’t see the rancor-thing at all--unless that was it, somewhere in that big black shadow in the corner--but they could smell it. And hear it, a steady buzz-saw of a sound, over and over again.

It sounded like the thing was snoring _._

“It’s asleep,” Mission shrugged. “Smik! Hey! Smik!”

“You’re going to wake it up screaming at it.” Carth sounded worried.

He kept looking at her too. Did he think Polla didn’t notice? She knew he hated this plan, but it wasn’t like Flyboy had a better one. Oh yeah, maybe win some speeder race. Like he could beat her? He’d said himself it had been years since he’d ridden anything more challenging than a snub, and everyone knew those Republic fighters had auto-targeting and all the nav maneuvers half-automated. Like flying a sim more than actual space.

 _So they can focus on shooting their enemies,_ her head reminded her.

_Whatever._

“It’s deaf,” Mission said. “Otherwise, it’d be crazy, right? One of the top apex predators in the galaxy penned up in this tiny hole--Smik! Hey Smik!”

“Its name is Smik?” Carth looked confused.

“No, Smik’s the keeper. I told you already! Don’t you ever listen?” The girl kept calling but either Smik wasn’t there, or he wasn’t dumb. Polla’s money was on the latter.

_If you have a giant apex repto-mammal predator for a pet, why would you walk into a trap?_

“If it’s deaf, can’t we just sneak past it?” Polla peered into the dark, trying to get a sense of the space. The faintest light from the other side outlined what looked like a door. _Presumably, the door's locked, but Mission says she can slice through anything._

She took a cautious step down onto the floor of the room. Something brittle crunched under her feet. The sound of the beast’s snores didn’t change. Her feet slipped on the surface and she realized it was metal.

_Not duracrete. Metal. Why? Easier to clean?_

_“Polla!”_ Carth’s fingers closed on her arm and he pulled her back, right into the flat hardness of his chest. There were muscles under that orange jacket of his--she’d noticed before, but they were standing so close now that his breath was warm against her ear. A pleasant and totally not-the-right-time shiver stole up her spine. Carth made a noise in his throat and took a step back, shifting his hips away from her back, but he didn’t let go of her arm.

“Shhh, Flyboy.” When she turned her head, his face was right there, vague and handsome in the dim lights, that damned lock of hair falling in his eyes--Polla pushed it back. The hair was coarse but soft under her fingers. Exactly as she’d imagined. “How can you see?” she chided.

“What? Uh, I--” the pilot’s feet moved, but instead of backing away again, he moved closer. The hand on her arm slipped off and wrapped around her waist. His hip brushed against hers. “Careful,” he muttered, his voice a harsh whisper. “Just because it’s deaf doesn’t mean it can’t see. Or smell.”

“All I can smell is rotting meat. And ronto shit.” She wrinkled her nose and was pleased when he chuckled.

“What can I say? I bring a lady to all the best places.”

 _“I_ brought you guys both here,” Mission interrupted them, jumping down herself. “Knock it off, okay? You can swap fleas later!”

“Think you can slice the door, Mission?” Kid was right. Carth must have felt the same because he dropped her arm--at the exact moment Polla stepped away from him, turning back to that pile of black in the right-hand corner, and that outline of a door across from it.

“Yeah, but a lot of times they don’t even lock it.” The kid paused. “I guess they might have started locking it since me and Zaalbar started robbing them.”

“Maybe that’s not such a good idea, robbing rival gangs,” Carth muttered.

Polla winced. _No shit, Captain Obvious, but you think she wants to hear it from you?_

“You’re not my boss,” the kid snapped. “I’ve done this before--okay? Just follow me across. Walk soft. Try not to step on the food-piles. It wakes him up.”

 _How would it wake him up?_ “Wouldn’t want to wake up dear Fluffy.” Polla rolled her eyes at Carth. “Do we have a plan once we’re in?”

“You’re going to give them all our credits.” His voice was acid. “And that generous gesture will make them free Zaalbar and give him back. Then they’ll let us all go.”

“We’ve got permacrete detonators,” Mission chirped. “And you guys can fight, right? You did pretty good in the cantina! I bet if you’d been there when that Sith chopped everybody, they might’ve stood a chance.”

 _Not fracking likely._ But Carth… he had a pretty good point there. _My plan won't work._

“Hold a sec,” Polla muttered, fishing in her pockets. The credits were mostly all wadded up in a pile. The Imperial currency was a little confusing and hard to read in the dark, but she did her best to separate two-thirds of what she had left--maybe about six thousand--and shove it under a pile of refuse. When her hands touched the garbage on the floor, she realized it was mostly bones and-- “ugh.” _And rancor poo doo, as Mission would say._ She shoved the majority of the credits under a big pile and glanced around the room to triangulate the loc. The door to the Black Vulkar base was about twenty degrees ahead of them in a straight line.

“What are you doing?” Carth hissed.

“You were right. We can’t go in there with all the credits.”

“I was right?” He seemed stunned. It looked cute on him--as much as Polla could see.

“Did you just plant a detonator?” Mission’s outline was a few meters ahead in the gloom. She’d given them each four from her stash. Polla wasn’t sure what the girl had planned to do with the rest, or how many more there were, but she was pretty sure that was enough explosives to--to--

_I don’t know anything about fracking explosives. I just smuggle them. Exchange would pay plenty for enough explosives to level this base, and perhaps the surrounding tunnels as well--_

“No.” Polla moved quickly to catch up. The floor rang under her boots, vibrating slightly, and then she got why shifting its food was bad. _Floor’s tensile, set to shake. Vibrations wake the rancor. Smart. Little late for that info now._ “Mission, if Fluffy wakes up, run. Running is way fracking smarter than facing it head-on.”

“Really?” Mission snorted. “Don’t teach me how to splice locks, grandma.”

“Grandma?” Oh, that kid was asking for it. But now wasn’t the time.

“Wait--” Behind them, Carth scuffled and the floor shook again. “Blast! I think I just stepped in--”

“Poo doo.” Mission giggled. “Yeah, I was gonna warn you about that but it’s funn--”

A low rumble interrupted the see-sawing groans in the dark corner of the cave, and two wide-set eyes blinked, orangish-red, impossibly big. Far apart. Really fracking big. The low rumble turned to a growl--

_Red eyes. The eyes are red. They’re not red. They’re orange. Rancor have orange eyes. It’s normal, it’s a perfectly normal color--_

“Polla!” Carth’s arm was grabbing her, dragging her to the wall, even as Mission charged forward, heading to the door. “Get that door open, Mission. As fast as you can!” He lobbed a grenade back the way they had come, at the same time.

The explosion and the beast’s movement seemed to happen simultaneously, as it charged toward them, then veered suddenly as the contents of the floor upended with the explosion. _I was right._ _It might be deaf, but it senses the vibrations on the durasteel._ Carth was still dragging Polla when her own nerves kicked back in, and she moved too. She lobbed another grenade back without looking. Probably fear, but Polla swore she could feel the wind pushing them faster forward as the beast lobbed away from them again.

_They’re smart. This won’t keep working. The thing can smell you._

“Rancor shit,” she muttered, as her foot slid into it again. She pulled Carth down with her, rolling on top of him to get the back of his jacket coated in it--then grabbing some to rub on herself.

“CARTH?” Mission’s voice.

The roar of the beast broke her concentration. _Too close._

Polla looked up to see the kid outlined in in the light of the now-open door. There were other figures behind Mission--armed. No time to assess more because she was moving again, moving toward the charging animal, with a grenade in her hand.

“Cover her!” she yelled at Carth.

“Polla?” His voice was panicked, but she felt more than saw him moving across the floor, using her distraction to get to the kid. _Good._

“Hey Fluffy?” Polla had reached the edge of the room, back where they’d began. Time had telescoped and was moving strange and low. Carth was running toward the stairs, Mission was frozen in the door. Some asshole had stepped in and had his hand around the girl’s neck.

_Fool. It can’t hear you._

“FLUFFY!” Polla yelled again anyway, jumping up and down. She threw another detonator right at it--

_That won’t work._

Must have bounced off the thing’s hide, because it exploded a few meters off from her aim--pretty close to where she’d just stashed their entire fortune.

_Damnit._

“FLUFFY!” Polla was running with the vibroblade out and extended before she had time to think. Straight at it, with the most insane plan ever in her head. _Jump when it ducks its head the eyes are vulnerable, you need to get on its head stab it in the eyes or the mouth everywhere else is armored--_

_Probably armored, how the frack would I know--_

Her foot slid in the slippery muck, and Polla went down on her ass--just as a claw raked the air where she’d been. Suddenly she was rolling, with something heavy and scaled above her. A taloned leg slammed down less than half a meter from her skull. Polla lobbed another grenade back toward the entrance and closed her eyes, kept rolling--if this was it she didn’t want to fracking see--

Whoosh of air overhead and another explosion behind her. Roar as the thing lumbered off. _No time._ Revan rolled forward, nearly to the steps--

“Fluffy! What are you doing to Fluffy?” A man’s voice. Unfamiliar. A high whistle that seemed to shake the air and a bright light flashed in her eyes, momentarily blinding her.

_Signal. He’s signaling it--that must be the thing’s owner, Smik, calling it off--_

As her vision resolved, the outline of the open door was overhead--a slice of yellow light in the gloom. Carth and Mission stood frozen as Polla clambered to her feet to face down the barrels of several guns. Her eyes registered eight Vulkars of various races and physical condition. _That you can see. There will be more inside._ All armed. All furious. The fattest was a Gamorrean who looked like he’d eaten a few other Gamorreans. He was holding a long metal tube twisted in the middle in one hand and flashing a beacon at Fluffy behind them with the other.

_Hello, Smik._

The rancor made a low rumbling noise and then Polla heard the stomp of its feet as it slunk off again.

 _How the hell do you tame a rancor?_ Maybe now wasn’t the time to wonder.

[“Hello, Smik,”] she said politely. [“I’d love to talk to your boss about a great business opportunity for both of us. He around?”]

[“He’s busy.”] Smik looked confused.

“You’ve got ten seconds,” the man in the middle said. He was an unremarkable Human, mostly brown and gray. He also, Polla noted, had the best gun. “Ten seconds to tell me why we shouldn’t shut the door and let Fluffy have a second breakfast.”

XXX

“Padawan, wake up!” Elias spoke Basic, his voice so high and excited that Bastila realized he must have been shouting for her to wake for some time.

Her dreams had been-- _unmemorable. Peaceful._ Bastila took a slow breath and opened her eyes.

“I heard blasters,” the Ithorian said. “Fighting. Up at least one level I think. And explosions.”

As if providing evidence, a faint boom followed his words. The overhead light fixture in their prison swung back and forth.

“Perhaps we are to be rescued.” Bastila should have had more faith in the Jedi, in the Republic. Her commanders… _Forn and Jiya would never leave me to die._ She stood up stretching the stiffness from her limbs and assumed a lento pose, resting on the balls of her feet, swaying back and forth. The forms felt strange without the Force to speed her movements, but a moment later, Elias joined her. _Dakash. Isra. Nam. Oloth--_

“Well, well, well…” the female Twi’lek, Jisellle, was accompanied by a Human male. His yellow hair looked dyed, contrasting with the orange-brown of his skin. He nodded to the two security droids that flanked them. “Pack em for shipping. Looks like we’re gonna need to move before the big day.”

“These Jedi are more trouble than they’re worth, Brejik!” the woman groused.

“They’ll be trouble for someone else if we play our cards right.” The man winced, as an especially loud explosion shook the walls of their prison. “Did you kill the Wookiee at least?”

“Kandon was on that--”

“I want to know how the kid got special forces on her side. Looks like a Sith team on the monitors. Did you see that one move?”

“I didn’t see any sabers.”

 _I cannot be captured alive._ Bastila knew that in her bones, and yet she had no idea what to do.

“On my mark,” the man commanded. “Flip the switch, Jiselle.”

“Let’s hope the Sith slows down,” the woman muttered. She depressed a button set into the wall.

The fields around their cells shorted out.

Elias moved faster than it seemed possible without the Force, but a jet from one of the droids puffed coolant around his body, slowing him, before a net of plasticore encased his limbs--

[“Look out!] Bastila called to warn him, even as she lunged forward at their captors, cursing the slowness of the air around her, the loss of her own strength. [“Elias, look out!”]

Her fellow padawan’s head turned--and froze, as the droid’s coolant billowed across his form.

Ice seized Bastila’s bones and she realized the same thing had just happened to her.

Darkness returned, and with it, the silence.

XXX

“Look,” Carth began. “We’re all reasonable sents, yeah?” It had been years since the Skyjammers, and they’d all been kids, but he tried to make his voice fall back in that sing-song cant that was the same a galaxy over. “I--we heard you was lookin for talent.”

Polla’s hand moved to his hip like she was going for his blaster and he caught it to stop her. Her fingers were cold and sticky. Better not to think of with what--or to take any deep breaths. She was breathing quickly, and her body was warm against his. Better not to think about that too.

_How did she make it past the rancor?_

Carth hadn’t had time to choose between Polla and the kid--there’d been no choice, he’d seen the kid with a gun to her head, the kid that they were responsible for, damnit. He’d moved before he thought and still, somehow Polla had made it across the floor on her own.

_Thank the stars._

“We’re all full up for shit-eaters,” the man in the middle said. He had to be the leader, his guns were the best. “Five seconds.”

“But--”

“Four.”

“Wait!” Polla stepped forward, pushing past Carth. “You will drop your hands from her immediately,” she barked in that clipped accent she’d used on the Twi’lek Sith before. And the elevator guards. “And drop your weapons.”

“Hah,” the Gammorrean grunted.

The man blinked, looking astonished. “Wha--”

Mission’s knee lifted and her elbow jabbed hard into her captor’s chest as her foot connected with his knee. At least--Carth thought that was what happened next--the next few minutes were too much of a scrum to think beyond reflex and targets. He spent most of them trying to get as many down as he could--and not hit the Deralian spinning with a vibroblade in the middle of the Vulkars like an Echani sworddancer.

 _Beautiful,_ Carth thought randomly, as he took aim at the thug sneaking up on her flank. A slug sank into his left shoulder, and he barely felt it.

The little Twi’lek was using the Gamorrean’s dead body as a shield. She’d grabbed a rifle from one of the bodies and was taking out targets with a sniper’s precision.

It was a rout. _Their_ rout. Against all odds, they were winning.

XXX

Things had taken a turn for the bad. The count to ten had become an entirely different count entirely.

 _Eight down now--and now the reinforcements. Nine._ Flash of blue light straight at her, and Polla slammed her blade to the side to block--

Only to nearly get cut in the face by a piece of her own vibroblade cut by the blaster bolt. Now, she was holding half a blade with a broken edge.

_That only works in the vids, I guess._

Someone took the second to try and flank her, but Polla left her now-useless blade sticking in their stomach and grabbed their blaster instead--aiming for the asshole who had just shot at her--

_Ten down--no! Frack! How did I miss?_

A bolt whined from behind her and took the Vulkar out.

“Polla! Watch it!” Mission popped up, moving with Carth toward a door with stairs going up and down behind. The attacking Vulkar fell--shot by one of them, Somewhere in the distance, Polla could hear an enraged Wookiee’s roar.

 _Eleven._ Her hand slammed out and the man sneaking up on her tripped. Without looking she knew he'd broken his neck.

_Without looking I know that I--_

She dropped the stupid, useless fracking blaster.

“Up these stairs! Hurry!” Mission was standing in the stairwell, practically dancing from side to side. “I hear Big Z! I think he's up on the next level.”

“Stay behind me,” Carth barked. “Both of you.” He advanced slowly, a pistol in his right hand, motioning to them with his left. Looked like he’d gotten winged there too. Blood on his shoulder. Blaster burn on the banthahide.

_Flesh wound. Deal with it later._

Polla bent down to search a corpse for a new weapon but all she found was another one of those shock sticks like the one she'd used before on Dia.

_It worked, she died--she died and I just broke his neck and I didn't even see--_

Polla reached the stairwell after her companions were halfway to the next landing, tossing Carth a kolto pack. He nodded and slipped it inside his jacket. She heard the seal pop as it covered the wound. He came down the stairs again toward her, frowning with that worry-line between his eyes again. "Polla? Are you hurt?"

“We need to go downstairs. Down,” Polla said. She felt… strange. Abruptly, the world slowed, turned gray. ”Ichnay druust’laa.” _Look out!_

“Hey!” Mission glanced back, face a blue heart through the bars of the stairs. “I didn't know you spoke Ithorian! _And_ Gamorrean, shame ole Smik didn’t listen before--”

“She knows a lot of languages.” Carth’s arm enfolded her. “Polla? You okay? We’re going up.”

“Zaalbar's upstairs. Come on!” Mission started to charge past Carth but he held up his hand and she stopped.

“Wait for us,” he told her. “First rule, never run in alone.” He glanced back at Polla and then up at Mission. Without another word, he dropped her arm and went charging up the stairs after the kid.

“Elias. Usha,” Polla muttered. For a second, the world dissolved and then--

“Duck!” A blaster bolt winged past her ear, and the world snapped back. Carth was screaming at her. And shooting at--

A Vulkar with a knife fell down right in front of Polla. Scrawny guy. Looked like someone's da. Fear launched Polla forward, flying up the stairs to her friends.

“Mission, this is insane.” Captain Obvious was being more obvious than usual. “We can't just… take on an entire swoop gang ourselves.”

 _We’ve killed twelve of them,_ a clinical part of Polla whispered. _But the second one I stabbed might still be alive. He won’t walk again though. No time to check. He doesn't matter._

“Oh, we’re not,” the Twi’lek chirped. “Like more’n half of 'em are probably already at the track setting up for tomorrow.”

Polla glanced down the stairs, but whatever need she'd felt to go there was gone now. Empty. Frozen. Cold. _Hessi walking over my grave. Just me losing my mind--_

She reached in her pocket and pulled out the shock stick that was still in there. The hilt was round and smooth. Somehow soothing.

“Come on, soldier.” Carth had come back down, now, grabbing her arm and pulling Polla forward. “Either the kid’s right, or they're forming an ambush. Either way--"

He cocked his gun carefully and took out a camera on the wall that Polla hadn't even noticed. His face was still streaked with rancor shit.

Suddenly, it all seemed nuts. Polla started to laugh.

_Xxx_

It took Carth a second to realize the strange choked noises the Deralian was making weren't from crying or fear. But everyone reacted differently in a fight.

He'd just never seen someone react as… quickly as this Deralian. Hell, half the times he'd aimed at a target, her blade had been first. And the way she fought with a vibroblade had been…

 _Insane,_ his mind supplied. _Dangerous. Beautiful._ There’d been a shock troop of Echani that Jedi kid Pando had led groundside on Kitarn who’d fought like that. _Deralia must do a lot of business with Eshan if they teach them to fight--_

“Polla?” he whispered.

She was still making that choking noise, clutching the shock stick she’d pulled out for dear life with one hand, and holding onto him with the other. She smelled like a rancor’s sewer.

“Polla, focus. We need to find Zaalbar.”

“I know.” She glanced at him, eyes bright as if she'd been crying. Her top knot fell over her eyes. She had rancor crap all over her face. Carth knew he did too. “My vibroblade broke.”

He didn't want to know how. “We’ll get you another.” Their faces were so close. He could see yellow flecks in her eyes, amidst the brilliant green. “I promise.”

“Come on, guys.” He'd let go of Mission. She'd run forward to the top of the stairs, stood silhouetted in the doorway. “I _think_ it's clear. Just let me wire this console to switch off the defenses.”

 _I hope you’re right._ “Okay.” Carth was keeping his ears peeled, but the only noise he heard was Zaalbar’s wail.

Polla’s head turned, frowning.

And then Carth heard it too--the sound of a speeder starting far below.

“Someone's getting away.” Polla shivered. “Frack ‘em.”

“This way, guys!” Mission was smiling. “Up here! We're clear.”

Xxx

After the first craziness, where Carth was like a total soldier and his girlfriend Polla was like an ace with a blade, and Mission--not that she'd brag because Zaalbar would tell her it was rude--but she did plant three of those losers herself where the sun wouldn't shine--but after that, the final run to Zaalbar was just past a pack of deactivated droids (thanks to Mission who’d fried a whole barracks of Vulkars but she wasn’t gonna brag) and then finding her friend chained to the wall next to a scared, grubby bint from the Undercity.

Everyone seemed to be talking and barking all at once, and it took Mission a while to get their attention.

“Hey!!” She yelled, right in the middle of Big Z thanking Polla and Carth for like the fiftieth time and slum-girl explaining she was looking for her missing little brother, and still needed their help for that, and to find her people’s promised lands--like breaking her out of this base wasn’t enough? Some sents didn’t know the meaning of the word grateful! “While we’re here… wanna go lift that swoop accelerator prototype?”

“Where is it?” Polla asked.

“Garage, probably.” Mission shrugged and handed Zaalbar this neat assault gun she'd picked off a corpse. Wasn't as good as his lost bowcaster, but it was something. “Me and Big Z have had the specs of this place for ages. Downstairs.”

“We need to find an exit,” Carth muttered.

“That’s the best one!” she assured him. Weren’t true--there was a vent tube big enough for even Zaalbar about twenty meters down the all, but then they’d have nothing to show for all this except the skinny Human kid fawning all over Polla and Big Z.

“Garage sounds good.” Polla stretched her arms over her head. She was literally caked in poo doo but she didn’t seem grossed out at all. Humans were _weird._ “We can't go out the way we came in with the rancor there. I heard a speeder driving away before.”

[“I will follow you,”] barked Zaalbar, looking at Polla.

“Sure,” she nodded. “Guess I’ll lead.”

“I need to find my people’s promised land,” the girl whispered. “And Ijo, my brother.”

“Is your brother kind of bald and skinny?” Polla asked. Like that didn’t describe half the Human spawn in the Undercity. “Cause I met this kid who said his sister was lost looking for the promised land earlier. I gave him some rakghoul vaccine earlier. He went up on the elevator.”

“He made it outside? To the Upper City?” The girl’s face brightened like it was her stupid name day.

“Um, yeah.” Polla shifted on her feet. “Sure. I guess.”

[“Tell her the promised land is below the Gamorrean refuge, in the sewer’s hindclaw quadrant,”] Zaalbar groaned.

[“Hey!”] Not like she liked going down there, but-- [“I will not! That’s _our_ hideout!”]

[“Mission, she was a prisoner with me. Helpless as you were. She told me of her people. They are not hunters. They should not be prey.”]”

[“I was _not_ helpless!”] Man, Big Z was getting on her last nerve. She ignored him and walked over to Carth, who’d booted up one of the Vulkars’ old terms and was tapping something into it. _That_ was smart. Vulkars probably had decent ice now around their systems, considering how hard it had been to hack into them a few months back.

“What are you doing?” she asked him, leaning in to see.

“Trying to get an outside ping,” he said. “I need to let my superiors know we’re still alive down here.”

“The Sith track all of that stuff,” Mission told him. “They’ve got this big databank processor up in the towers that filters through it. You can’t just make a comm.”

“Yeah, I figured.” The Human geezer turned toward her. He had a good smile, despite the square teeth. “Not my first war, kiddo.”

“The promised land is beneath the Gamorrean breeding pits, in the southern sewer extension,” Polla was telling the bint, translating what Zaalbar had said.

Mission twitched a sign to get stuffed, and brown-hair smuggler know-it-all held up a finger back.

“Thank you, upworlder!” the kid who was dumb enough to get trapped gushed. She took a step forward like she was gonna hug Polla, but then her nose wrinkled. “Uh...”

“Hey, it’s fine.” The smuggler laughed. “Carth and I need a fresher pretty bad, I guess.”

“I’ll let you go first,” the guy said, glancing back. _“This_ time, soldier.”

“Soldier, huh?” Polla scoffed. “If this is your way of getting a girl to join the Republic, Onasi, we’ve gotta work on your moves.”

“My moves?” He laughed, head still turned away from his screen, which looked like gibberish anyway. “You are the… the most--”

“Hey!” Mission elbowed him. “Can you run a search for Griff Vao?” Because who knew--Flyboy (as Polla Organa called him, and she was deciding it fit)--was pretty good with this cracking thing. He’d gotten through the Imp fireshields onto some kind of Republic net. Mission could see the Pub seals all around the top. He’d landed on some Senate media message-drop. But all the strokes below the seals were still in code.

Either that or sents spoke weird-ass Basic in the Core.

“Not right now, kiddo.” He was typing in strings of Aurebesh that didn’t mean nothing. Mission knew. She’d been to school. And Big Z had those holo-programs. _Kiddo._ She’d strangle him if she didn’t need an outside line to find out where that schutta Lena had taken Griff so bad.

The Undercity garbage was babbling that her name was Malya now.

“Then it _was_ your brother!” Polla-the-traitor exclaimed. “He’s… he’s okay. If I see him again… uh, I’ll send him back.”

Mission thought she needed to learn to sell it more, but the bint was crying tears of joy.

[“We should leave,”] Zaalbar growled. [“The other Vulkars will return in force.”]

“Maybe they’ll be too pissed to have their swoop race tomorrow.”

“I don’t know what the Wookiee’s saying.” Carth straightened up from his terminal and then used his blaster on it. Like the Sith would need to track physical keystrokes. Geezer Flyboy sure could be dumb. “But we need to get out of here.”

“Follow me,” Polla was already moving to the door like she was in charge. Zaalbar roared an agreement and followed--just like that. Dumb Malya too.

“C’mon.” Carth looked like he knew better than to grab Mission’s hand or shoulder or something dumb like that. “You can take point, kid. I’ve got your six.”

“I'm not a kid,” Mission pointed out, just so they were clear.

“You got it.”

Geezer wasn’t bad, Mission decided. She’d have to keep her eye on the crazy smuggler.

XXX

The message-drop wasn’t official. It was, as Captain Ekkumi liked to tell herself, a gray area in Fleet protocol.

Officially, there were no open channels to Sith-occupied space. But some of the mercy missions still had agreements--treaties signed from before, from the early days of the war. Among the refugee settlement accords were some with Senate backing. The most prominent was the Ilyana Foundation for the Protection and Removal of Civilians from Imperial Space, which kept an open message-drop for all survivors of the Telosian, Yu-Phaedron, Endar, and Duros massacres.

Rew Ekkumi had buried the remains of her son and husband, but she and Carth still kept looking. For Carth’s son--of course--and any other survivors they could find. There is a comfort in letting grief die, but the questions she had never did.

_Did they suffer? Was it quick? Is there any way that the morgue-scans made a mistake--_

**One Telos Raiders fan on Taris with Deralian dice,** the message read that was set to alert on her screen. **Looking for hope and prayer, sister. Drop a line.**

“You’re up late.” Her bedmate yawned lazily from her bed, running a hand through his white hair. “Come to bed, Rew. We’ve got the Senate thing in the morning.”

“Carth’s alive, Denis.” Denis Cein wasn’t the first person she’d tell given the chance, but he was here.

“What?” His blue skin was dark enough in the dim light that all she could see was the flash of his eyes through the shifting shadows of the clouds overhead, high on her balcony atop Coruscant.

“He… we both belong to the same Telosian survivors' group.” Carth was _Killthemall78,_ and Rew was _Malakscum3._ It had been a dark joke, once. Too dark for the clear light of her conscience, but she still checked the feed. She owed Carth that much, to look for his son and for reports of their friends.

Doubly so, since the _Endar Spire_ had been lost with all hands above the skies of Taris a Coruscanti week ago.

Rear Admiral Cein got up, still naked, and padded over to her console, peering over her shoulder. Automatically she reached back and ran her fingers down his bare blue chest.

“Ah,” he murmured. “Deralian?”

“Hope must be Bastila.” The Deralian thing was another clue to that, of course. “You were all together over Deralia, so--”

“So Bastila’s alive.” Cein sighed. “Or Onasi thinks she is. Or someone wants us to think she is. This is dangerous, Rew.”

“It’s a message-drop, Denis.” What could Dodonna or Rensha do if they found out she was using an open channel? Court-martial one of the only tactical commanders they had left? “The fact that it’s open to anyone makes it invisible. There’s nothing in that message that would set off the censors--”

“You’re wrong.” He snorted. “Oh, Rew, you’re wrong.”

 **Keep hope,** she typed back. Cein didn’t stop her. “Should I say something about the dice? Are you going to object? Turn me in?”

“No.” His large blue hands sought the console over her shoulder. **Keep hope alive,** he typed. **“Both or none. We--”** he frowned and erased the pronoun. **“I remember Yu-Phaedra. I will not forget you.”**

 _Denis was Carth’s commander at Yu-Phaedra._ That part made sense. “Both or none?” She craned her head to look at his expression.

“Bastila and the Deralian.” Denis sighed and sat down in the chair next to hers. There was laundry piled on it, which made the naked Chiss seem incongruous. But there was no mirth at all in his expression. “There is a great deal you were never told, Rew...”

By the time he finished speaking, halos of pink and gold had shifted the dark fog of night, heralding the spring Coruscanti dawn.

XXX

_“I will follow you,” Zaalbar had said to a human female in a Taris sewer, sensing that she was strong enough to protect Mission. Wise enough to navigate the duracrete jungle, where his own skills put both of them too often in harm's way. “ I will follow you,” he had said._

_\--Memory, Chapter 26_

 

_XXX_

A/N Song lyric chapter title, “The Sound of Silence,” by Simon and Garfunkel

I feel like a lot of elements of my Vulkar showdown were influenced by Ether-fanfic’s version in Chapter 14 of “Identities of a Lost Soul,” which can be found on this site, and on my favorites/bookmarked list. While I only was thinking of the Mission hacking sequence and running from the rancor, I think more bled in. Influence is the highest form of praise, and it is definitely that.

Next up, Swoop race and reunions, Mandalorians, and probably at least one duel.

  



	9. The Reasons I Think That We’re Ill

**Oblivion**

_ Malak tilted his head back against the wall of the bulkhead. The flickering fluorescents above them lit the line of his young profile from forehead to shoulder. His hair was tangled, and almost as long as hers. _

_ "It wasn't all like this. We quarreled about his name for at least a day, and about me leaving the Order for at least a week. You were obsessed with the Fett. I kept telling you to shut up. Vrook ran himself ragged trying to care for the sick; feeling the emotional distress around us was  _ not  _ pleasant; we had lice—all of us, even Mal; and you kept going on and on about how we should have stopped the Mandalorian threat....” --Memory, Chapter 10  _

 

**XXX**

**Chapter 9 / These Are the Reasons I Think That We’re Ill**

**XXX**

When Polla, Carth, Zaalbar and Mission arrived back at the Hidden Beks’ hide-out they were greeted like conquering heroes by the gang, who pulled out a Bith band, a few kegs, and some kind of roast nutrameat that almost tasted real.

The Beks also lost no time in going back to the Vulkars’ den and looting every part of it.

As the evening progressed, more and more gang members staggered back with obviously salvaged equipment. They were, one enthusiastic Weequay told Polla, “stripping the place dry before Brejik stops pissing his pants.”

The Weequay then insisted she stay for several rounds of toasts for their victory. Polla didn't want to be rude, but after the fourth round, her head was inexplicably spinning and she begged off, glancing back toward the buffet, expecting to see Carth skulking from his corner.

But Flyboy was gone.

She tried to ask Zaerdra where he was, but the woman just glared and stalked away, leaving Polla holding her half-empty glass, jostling awkwardly back to her seat at the table between two sloshed Sullustans and Mission Vao.

“She doesn't like me,” she muttered at her glass. “What the hell did I ever do to her?”

“Who?” Mission had her legs crossed and propped up on the table, with a half-finished plate of ice crema in front of her. Her glass was half-empty and her eyes were half-lidded. Polla suspected she'd been sneaking drinks, but it was none of her business. Hells, the kid deserved to let off some steam.

“Nobody.” Was hard not to smile at the kid. “You okay, Mission?”

“Sure.” The girl yawned, extending an unsteady lekku and waving it at Polla. “I'm great! Can you show me how to use one of those extenda-swords sometime?”

“I don't really--”

Mission rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on!”

“Okay. Sure. Sometime. But I don't know that much--just had a few lessons when I was a tweener.”

Mission snorted. “Whatever.”

“Have you seen Carth? I asked Zaerdra before, but--”

“Nope.” Mission giggled. “Zaerdra doesn't like you.”

“Yeah, I… kinda got that.”

“Carth went to the armory with some of the guys.” Mission shrugged. “Least they call it the armory. It's really just a room where they keep stuff. Not, like, triple-enforced walls or anything.” She stretched her arms over her head. “I can't wait for tomorrow. It's gonna be amazing!”

“Sure.” Polla usually felt relaxed, night before a big race, but for some reason not now.  _ All those people were trying to kill us but we killed them instead. That was pretty fracked.  _ And  _ we’re trapped on a Sith planet. I should really call Ma-- _

“Hey, is there a long-distance wideband comm I could use?”

“Wideband?” The kid blinked. “That ain’t cheap. What for?”

“Just want to call home.” Polla shrugged. “You know how it is, sometimes you want to… to call… home.”

“Why? Are you gonna leave Taris?” Her blue eyes narrowed. “Taris has everything! Why’d you want to go anywhere else?”

“No, I just want to call--well, yeah. I mean, we are going to leave. Eventually.” Taris was a pit, but Polla figured it was all the poor kid knew.

“Good luck. Planet’s quarantined because of you guys, Zaerdra says.”

“Hey! Not  _ me  _ personally.”

_ Carth probably just went out to get some… air. Air underground in an armory? Not like he’s comming his Republic friends again, trying to figure out what to do with me, right? _

But hadn’t Polla just saved all of their asses in there? Well... maybe that fancy-shooting Onasi had helped too. And Mission and Zaalbar, but she’d been right in the thick of things, giving them cover while they shot--

Polla’s careless smile froze.  _ We actually  _ killed  _ those people. How many? Ten? Eleven? That old man--he almost killed me, but he looked like someone’s da-- _

_ There was no alternative.  _ The voice in her head was flat and cold.

_ I used a fracking sword on them. _

_ Not a very good one. Find better. _

Polla shivered. Seeing the gang’s crew celebrating, she was suddenly struck by how  _ young  _ they all seemed, even the ones who weren't young at all.

_ They're careless--not so different than the Vulkars. Life is cheap here--they take what they can. _

“Be careful,” she told Mission. “Today was… that got pretty nuts in there.”

“Yeah. It was great!” The tweener flashed her a smile, pointed Twi’lek teeth and all. “I hope you guys stick around. There’s a  _ lot  _ more stuff we can do!”

“I... we’ll see.”  _ I’ll have to leave you some credits when we leave this chiv-hole, kid. _

Carth had a nice smile too. Nothing like Therion at all. And he was… good.  _ And gone.  _ Polla craned her neck to look around all four corners of the vast space they were in, but Flyboy was nowhere. Zaerdra had informed Polla rather snippily that they'd been given just one room to sleep in. Her face flushed, remembering. She wasn't sure if the kid and Wookiee were bunking with them or not--

Asking if Carth was already in their room would be like putting a flashing target sign on her forehead.

_ Yeah, but since when am I shy?  _ Polla frowned and stood up.

“You gonna go find him?” Mission asked. “Captain Obvious, right? That’s what you call him?”

“Maybe he needs my help showing those kids how to calibrate their bikes.” Polla shrugged like it was nothing--just as the girl burst into hysterical laughter. “Where's this armory?”

[“Down the hall.”] Zaalbar put down his roast chunk of nutra, gesturing with a clawed hand. [“Do not steal anything. The Beks take a dim view of theft against them.”]

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She’d be insulted if she thought the Beks had anything she fracking wanted.

Polla made it halfway to the armory before she was interrupted.

Xxx

“What's the next step of your brilliant plan, Lady Organa?” Davad crossed his arms. Their minions had come and gone, leaving them alone in the wreckage of the bar that had once been  _ Jayvar’s Cantina _ . “Now that we’ve established a few complicit shields to throw before Malak, how do you want to go about framing them?”

“I think I like Vikor being the betrayer.” Beya lifted her head back, rolling up an elbow as the massage droid hovered over her shoulders. “He's always so smug--as if anyone would care about his pathetic secrets.”

“Bandon or Nicosia,” Davad countered. “Both of them are more dangerous. Xaset’s useful and Vik’s happy just keeping his father’s business afloat. Vik has alliances in Core Space--if our invasion ever gets that far....” He leaned back in the hoverchair someone had dragged out of the back offices, keeping an eye on Organa, lounging her full length on the plastisynth bar. She looked entirely relaxed--which meant the opposite.

_ You still haven’t answered my question, Beya.  _ How  _ are we going to overthrow Malak? And will our forces flock to Revan’s shell as easily as you assume? _

“I'd think you were scared of Bandon,” she said. “If you and I weren't so close.”

“I’d think you were avoiding implicating yourself. If it wasn’t obvious that you want to end Malak as much as I do.”

“Of course.” She glanced down at her comm and frowned. “Hrm….”

“Where is Revan now?” It was late. Vik’s last report noted she had returned to that hotel with that Captain Onasi.

_ If Karath's pilot is sleeping with her, I will vivisect his entrails.  _ The rage was pure and good. Davad took a deep breath to savour its sweet taste.

Beya shrugged and glanced down at her comm, swiping in a few commands. There was a long pause before she answered him. “She’s not showing up on my scope.”’

“What?” His earlier calm evaporated, but the hunger remained. Davad looked around restlessly for something to eat--but the scavengers had scraped the place dry.

“The isotope trackers in her drinks wore off. She hasn't had a drink in the last twelve hours--not at any cantina on Taris.” Beya chuckled. “A record.”

_ The hotel.  _ Too easy to imagine Rev and that pilot sharing their quarters, a glass of ice wine in their rooms--

_ His entrails. Are mine. _

At the moment, Davad thought he would  _ eat  _ the egg-cursed man’s entrails--at least if someone cooked them first.

“You’re growling.” Beya chuckled, raising an eyebrow.

_ “I  _ could have tracked her. There was no need for your fallible tech. Or Tio’s incompetence. What did his agents say?”

“You don’t trust Vik?” Beya’s hair hid most of her expression.

“I know you collect the Genoharadan report directly as well.” Was that why  _ she  _ didn’t trust Tio? But why would the man lie? The Twi’lek had no hope of seizing power for himself.  

“Fine.” Beya gave an exasperated sigh. “If you must know, my beautiful manka’s report says that Revan--rather, the  _ body  _ of Revan was last seen--” her voice broke off and she glanced up at him, flipping her hair back from her eyes. “Actually, it’s odd. The last sighting was roughly twelve hours ago--in the  _ Lower City. _ Surveillance ends in an area where the cameras were removed.” Beya waved the massage droid off, sitting up, and raising her robes back to her shoulders, then belting them round her waist. “You know, it’s so typical of these mud-eaters, vandalizing their own planet.”

Davad’s calm shattered. “We need to find her.”

**_You_ ** **will** **_find her. Protect her--_ **

The glance behind him was pure reflex. As always, there was no one there at all.

“I'm sure she can’t have gone far.” Beya raised her wrist and tapped in a few more commands. “There… I told Vik to put a few more of his agents on the case. We’ll see what he does next--”

“And then you’ll check with  _ your  _ Genoharadan to see what he tells her?” He sneered. “You know they can’t be trusted.” Davad closed his eyes and took a breath, but he smelled nothing except the stench of old death. “I can track her myself.”

“Then why aren’t you?” Beya’s voice was sickly sweet as she slipped from the bar, landing light as air upon her feet. “I don’t trust anyone, Davad. The Genoharadan woman reports to me--and so does Vikor.” She ran a hand through her thinning hair, chuckling. “You know, in your own way, so do you.”

He felt his teeth pull back in a snarl. “That’s wise.”

“Yes. It is.” She paused, pivoting back toward him like a coiled manka herself. “Your people were collecting the survivors from the  _ Spire.  _ How many of your shadows are still on Taris?”

“Two divisions.” It was a lie. He kept them aboard his ship except when needed. That was safer. Their unique qualities made them a bit… unstable when exposed to too much civilian life. There were four sets of Blades on his ship--two he could afford to lose. “Is this going somewhere--or should I expect a summation of my forces to appear on Mal’s next intelligence briefing?”

Her lips curled. “You didn't think of using  _ them  _ to find Revan?”

“I didn’t want to frighten her--”

It took several minutes for Beya’s hysterical laughter to subside, giving Davad too much time to ponder the irony of his words.

Xxx

The hallway was more like a tube, really, cut into rock that could have been natural. The air was hot and felt claustrophobic. The overheads kept flickering.

It occurred to Polla suddenly that she should wonder how far underground they were, that there was a weight of at least one entire fracking city over her head. Suddenly the air felt stifling.  _ I fracking hate this planet, but the sky is worse. Something bad lives up in that sky-- _

_ Grass Priests, I sound like a loon. _

Polla’s feet sloshed in something danp and she nearly jumped out of her skin when a section of the wall slid open.

“I was hoping you'd come this way.” Gadon Thek appeared in a doorway out of nowhere. “Spare a moment?”

“Sure, ah… I was looking for Carth.”

“He's giving a talk to some of the young screamers in our munitions room.” The man's white eyes kind of gave her the creeps, the way they seemed to follow her face, even though he was blind. “Captain Onasi’s a good guy. If he sticks around, he'd be a great help.”

“Yeah, he ran with some swoop gang on Telos, I guess. He must know all the bike stats.” Polla shrugged, wondering if he meant to invite her inside his quarters or office or whatever it was--but the man didn’t budge. “I was never into the mechanical side of things. It’s all about the speed for me… “ Something was making her uneasy so she smiled at him. “Trust me, Thek, I’m gonna win you this race!”

“Captain Onasi isn’t talking to them about bikes.” Those blind eyes didn't blink. “Wanted to congratulate you--Polla Organa shot up to number three on Taris’s Most Wanted.”

_ I did? Wow.  _ “Thought your guys said they destroyed all the cams in the Vulkar Base.”

“You hit three in the rankings before that.” He kept staring at her. Maybe his eyes didn’t blink anymore--maybe they couldn’t. Did he  _ have  _ eyelids? Polla couldn’t tell. “Captain Onasi is number two. Bastila Shan, the Hope of the Republic, is number one.”

“What can I say, I hang out with interesting folks.”  _ Is that bad? Everyone in the bar seemed pretty impressed with Onasi before--that Davik Kang guy must’ve noticed there’s new talent in town by now-- _

Gadon continued talking, voice a monotone. “Our kids got chased off the Vulkar base an hour ago. There's an entire Sith patrol there now running sweeps. It’s nasty.  _ Very  _ nasty. Rico got a ping out before they cut him. Looked like a few darths, some of Malak’s chosen--”

Polla suddenly felt ill. “Well. Maybe they’ll take care of that rancor.”

“Maybe.” There was a long pause as if Gadon was waiting for more--and then he continued. “We’re pulling outta the race tomorrow. I… I figured we owed you the explanation. Vulkars are still running it the show--but we--”

“You  _ can't!”  _ Polla's indignation spiked and her hand reached forward--just as Gadon sidestepped, away from the door to the side of the wall.

Her fingers closed on thin air and she wondered what the frack she had been about to do.

She heard the old man’s breath, suddenly loud in the claustrophobic hall. Those eyes hadn’t changed, but the lines of his body tensed. Her eyes measured the distance between the blaster at his belt and that curved right hand--

_ He's afraid. He won’t shoot me. _

Polla looked back up at his face. “Look, you can't pull out. They've got… those Republic soldiers that Carth wants! _ And  _ Bastila Shan! Don’t you want to rescue Bastila Shan? Dadingdok was just telling me at dinner--you guys used to work with Jedi during the...”  _ well, one of the wars.  _ “Um, during the war.”

_ Bastila Shan is important. Even if I don't need to find her because I--  _ Carth had explained exactly why they needed to find her. It had been long and complicated. Polla frowned.  _ Hope of the Republic. Yadda yabbo. Save the galaxy. Battle Mediation-- _

_ Meditation. _

_ Whatever that is. _

“Oh, we’ll hold up our end.  _ You  _ can race.” The blind man grimaced as if Polla smelled bad. “Registered  _ you  _ as an independent. Most everyone running is registering unaffiliated. Too much attention down here and the robes are crazy--but I guess you know that, huh?”

Suddenly, Polla thought she understood. “Oh! Robes? You mean the Sith, right? When you say robes?”

“Of course.” She could see the traceries of his ocular implants gleaming like mesh around his eye sockets. Gadon Thek was smiling, but it was hard to tell about what. “Of course I mean the Sith.” There was a pause, and he crossed his arms. Polla noticed one of them was shaking--just a little.

_ Poor old man. _

“I want some assurances,” Gadon cleared his throat. “From you. Safety. For my people.”

Suddenly, Polla understood why he'd cornered her alone. “I think I understand."

"I hope so."

She smiled to put him more at ease. "You’re talking about Beya, right? My cousin Beya? Carth told you about her and… that guy? You’re worried I'm working with them?”

The old man looked confused. “Your… cousin?”

“Beya Organa. She's some kind of Sith--I mean, ‘robe--’” she tried to give the word the weight he was giving it but that felt ridiculous. “Darth? Darth Beya?”

“Beya Organa is Malak’s spymaster,” Gadon said flatly. “I didn't realize you two were related.”

_Spymaster? That sounds fancy. Wonder if_ she’s _got a ship to get us off this rock._ “Why would you?” _We just met,_ _eejit!_ “Yeah, Beya’s da, Bendowen, was my mother’s--” Polla frowned. “I think it's twice removed if they’re different generations, right? I always get that part wrong.”

“I didn't have you pegged as  _ actually _ Deralian, despite the..." he gestured at his own head. "Despite the hair. Your coloring is...” he frowned. “Perhaps my implants need calibration.”

“Then I guess you dunno much about our planet. I’m pretty typical.”

For some reason, this blind old man’s weird twitchiness was making Polla as uneasy as him. She remembered the old guy who had tried to stab her in the Vulkar base and for a dizzying second, she could see how the same scenario could have played out here with Gadon.

_ He’s afraid. He doesn't like me. He's trying to play it cool, but he's scared. He’s shaking. _

She realized she was staring at his hands again and lifted her eyes back to his face. It was cold in this hall, but the man was sweating.

_ If he's afraid of us maybe he shouldn't have let Carth go play with fracking munitions armory room! _

“You know we’re not here to cause any trouble, right?” she added. “Beya’s my cousin, but I'm not working with her. Carth and I… we’re the good guys.”

The gang leader blinked, expression frozen. “Of course you are.”

“I gave some rakghoul serum to this doc in the Upper City. I'm going to give him more too--soon as we find some.” Why did Polla suddenly feel like she had to defend herself? “And we wiped out your enemies for you--the Black Vulkars? Remember? They're mostly dead now.”

“Yes.” He blinked again.

There was a long silence while Polla tried to think of other stuff she'd done for the Republic personally, but Carth hadn't seemed to like the weapons and spice running so--

“You can trust me,” she added. “I’m gonna win this race for Mission and the rest of your gang, we’ll take Shan--and then we’ll be gone.”

“Zaerdra and I… we’d prefer you kept Mission Vao out of this.”

“Trust me, I'm trying.” She smiled at his blank face. “But that's one stubborn kid. Smart too. But I guess you know that.”  _ Don’t get all snotty with me. I’m not the one who taught her to shoot like that--or splice a term. _

“Your pilot friend is down the right corridor at the end of the hall.” Gadon rubbed his temples. “We’ll send an escort with you in the morning to the track.”

“Sure. Have fun.” Polla smiled at him again, but Gadon was already pushing past, heading back the way she'd come.

Xxx

“This is a mess.” Vikor Tio surveyed the wreckage of the swoop gang’s base. The Black Vulkars they were called--or had been. About a dozen dead and another six shocked unconscious in a control room. The one Selven had woken for interrogation swore she'd never heard a thing.

Vik had given it five hours since the tracker he'd put on Revan’s sleeve back at Zelka Forn’s had safely moved away before he sent in his report summoning the rest of Beya's mad kath. According to his trace, she was right now smack in the middle of a wall--three hubs and sixty meters down.

But Vik assumed the maps were wrong. The Taris Lower City denizens were smart--they knew how to hide.

_ How fortunate for them. _

He didn't have to suppress his distaste as Bandon came up, still streaked with the blood of his rancor kill. The poor animal had been ancient; half toothless, perhaps deaf, Vik had noted--from the time it had taken it to rouse when they crossed its prison floor. He’d spared a moment to wonder how Revan and her pilot had managed to escape its clutches, before dismissing the thought as irrelevant. Now, he was still pondering how to extricate himself.

Beya had commed twice asking about that blasted hotel.

XXX

**_I don’t know if they were there twelve hours ago or not,_** he’d finally swiped back. **_I was getting laid, Organa. You should try it._**

**_I have a lovely blonde in my bed right now,_ ** she’d shot back.  **_When you don’t pay them, they stick around until morning._ **

_But she did pay Selven. Did she think Vik didn’t know she had the Human operative reporting on him_ _too_? _You had to be smart with the Genoharadan-Vik's contract specified the inclusion of any inquiries on his own person._

 ** _I’ll keep scanning the cams for a sighting,_** _he wrote._

_ Well… not personally, of course. Tee was much more efficient--especially when the footage needed to be altered. _

**_Arkan is looking too. Send your reports to us both._** _She cut the connection._

_ XXX _

_ Davad and Beya, working together?  _ It had to be a joke--although Vik wasn’t sure on who. If there was still anyone alive to take the bet (he could hardly ask Beya herself) Vik thought he’d lay odds on Arkan and Organa killing each other within the month--especially now that the specter of Revan was back between them.

Of course, that meant there was no plot against Malak at all--no  _ external _ plot.

If anyone could kill the man it would be Bandon or Arkan. If anyone had the courage to try, it would be Arkan. The former prince of Onderon carried a lightsaber lit eight meters high for old Rev. Her death hadn’t changed that _.   _

Oh, Rev. How she had toyed with the man. Vik's family were slavers--and he thought his father was kinder to his stable of bed slaves than what he'd witnessed between Revan and her pet Onderonite.  _  Had  _ they ever been true lovers? Vik had never been part of that inner sanctum, thank the gods. Perhaps Revan had never taken the man to her bed… or perhaps she had... but not for lack of effort on Arkan's side--

“Look.” Bandon’s Human chin looked as pointed as a spear. He tossed a double-bladed lightsaber hilt at Vik, a gesture so unexpected that Vik almost lit it and stabbed the sleemo.

_ So easy.  _ But overconfidence was always a mistake.

“You found this here?”

“Are you dim?” Bandon scoffed. “Yes. Along with another single-blade and two sets of Padawan robes.”

“The swoop gang was attacked by two Padawans?” Vik kept his voice bland.

“There are cells in the basement. And a box half-full of neural disruptors.” Bandon glowered. “Almost as if this pathetic pack of swoopers was expecting to host Force-sensitive prisoners.”

_ Almost as if my work supplying the gangs with gear to fight the Sith has given them a way to subdue Jedi who might have  _ helped _. _

Vik would have strong words with Gadon and Brejik about this if he the gang leaders survived his fellow Sith’s interference.

“I’ll bring these to Beya,” Vik offered. “The lightsabers. She can take them to Malak. I'd be happy to give you credit for the find.”

“You do that.” Bandon’s hairy animal-nostrils flared and he sniffed the air with an exaggerated motion, obviously wanting Vik to notice. “I’ll continue my search for the real prize.” He gave another obscenely damp sniff. “I half-feel I’ve caught Shan’s scent already. So sweet--like flowers.”

Laughing would be ill-advised.  _ You’re no Arkan, Agare.  _ “Might just be sewer gas,” Vik muttered, buckling the extra weapons to his waist. “And Bastila Shan could still be dead.”

“No.” Bandon’s grin was terrible. Flat Human teeth were the first to go. “She’s alive.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The saber.” Bandon shrugged. “It…  _ feels  _ like her.”

“I had no idea the two of you were so close.”  _ Although that may explain why you're here, instead of licking Arkan’s boots and waiting for Malak to let you stab him in the back. _

“We were padawans together.” Bandon licked his lips slowly, making another gross movement with that floppy Human tongue.

Vik walked away before any sense of misguided gentility made him do something foolish.

Xxx

“Each one of you has a place in this fight. Everything you do against the Sith is a step in the right direction---”

Polla could hear Carth’s voice echo through the hall a few meters before she reached the open archway that led to the Hidden Beks’ armory.

“Even if it's small. Uh, a small step. We’ll fight today and we’ll fight tomorrow--because we must. It’s… it's not always gonna be pretty--or easy--”

Carth was making this resistance stuff look easy, Polla thought. Standing on a raised dais in the center of the room, even his charming stutter sounded good. That blonde kid next to the Zabrak in the corner was positively giving him wampa-eyes. And every time he stopped talking everyone cheered.

“It's not pretty, but what we can do… uh, right now.... is make fighting those Imps as safe as possible. What now I’m gonna do next is show you is how to salvage mines. Okay?”

The cheers and applause from about a dozen kids seemed more suited to a Bith band concert to Polla than a war speech, but what the frack did she know? She waved from the doorway to Captain Obvious, who smiled back and kept right on speechifying.

_ He’s no Holo-star, but he has something. _

_ Charisma. He’s playing to the audience. A professional soldier would frighten them.  _

Carth pushed back that damn lock of hair that was always in his eyes and slouched, one hand in his pocket--the exact opposite of how Polla would have expected him to stand in front of people. “So… to, uh, fight a war you need supplies. I’ve covered munitions, grenades and plasma chargers. Next, we’re gonna cover how you can salvage mines from the Imps themselves.”

He pulled a circular disc out of his pocket and held it in front of him. “This is a sonic mine. The Imps use them for security in their bases--hard to see, trips you up and knocks you out so they can interrogate you later. Very common on occupied planets--”

“Like this one, right?” Polla called out, leaning against the archway. She'd patched that jacket of his earlier before he wandered off during dinner--endured a round of teasing for it, too.

XXX

_ "You look sort of cute, sewing up my clothes. I wouldn't have thought you had it in you." _

_ Ma and Auntie Mita had insisted she learn. Easier to practice field medicine on cloth and hide than skin. _

_ "Don't expect me to make a habit of it, Flyboy. I just don't want the Sith to pick you up as a transient.” _

XXX

“Right,” Carth Onasi nodded back at her. “Very observant, soldier. Taris  _ is  _ an occupied planet.”

“Glad someone in the Republic finally fracking noticed!” yelled one of the boys near the front.

Polla smirked and crossed her arms. “Frack the Republic,” she said flatly.

Carth’s head gave an imperceptible shake, even as a few of the kids said it back.

“Frack the Republic!” Ragged cheers, uncertain and confused.

And Carth was frowning.

“What?” she grinned at him from across the room.

“Excuse my friend, she’s from… one of those backwater planets,” he joked. “Where she comes from, maybe that’s what they do.”

Someone giggled.

“Uh… where you do you think is the best place to go in Imp territory to get mines?” Carth went on, gesturing for them to settle down.

“The store?” Polla yawned, rolling the cricks from her neck.

“Lord Malak’s ass?” Someone else yelled.

“Good one.” Polla gave the direction of the caller an exaggerated bow--more like a curtsey, really, with several florishes. “He’s a giant, right? Bet his ass is enormous.”

One of the kids--the ones closest to Carth were even younger than Mission--giggled.

_ “Ke'sush!” _ A grizzled guy near the back cheered. He only had one arm, and a string of tattoos on his forehead. “Malak can go frack himself and his kriffin dar’jett army all the way back to M_____, that murderin osik piece of gi’haal--”

“Think we’ve got a Mandalorian, here, Captain!” Polla’s voice rang across the room, but it wasn’t as funny as it was supposed to be. “Why doesn’t  _ he  _ teach them to fight?”

The man got up, slowly. He’d blacked out most of his beskar, but one symbol was stamped on his legplates. “I do.” The people around him scooted to the side, clearing a path.

_ Zal. He’s from Clan Zal. Third moon of M____ Three. _

There was a buzzing noise in her ears. “What did you say before, vod? About Malak?”

The grizzled warrior spat on the ground. “I said, Malak can go frack himself. All the back to M____. M____ Five.”

The lights flashed overhead and the buzzing noise got louder.

“What…. five?”

The world tilted forward, like her ship was bucking an ion storm on the Defelli Rim. The world went forward and so Polla leaned back the door, waiting for it to stop. 

“M_____  _ Five.” _ The man looked baffled now. “Are you kriffing deaf?”

“No.” Suddenly, she was freezing. Polla looked up, half-expecting to see open sky suddenly, but that was nuts. There was just more duracrete above them. Solid. Not shaking at all.

_ Ke’sush. Attention. A Mandalorian’s call to arms before battle. Gi’Haal. Fish meal. Osik. Shit. _

“Okay, okay. I got you guys! Good one!” she called out as loud as she could. _“Mandokarla!!_ _That’s the stuff!_ He gets it, right? Three cheers for this fine verd of Zal!”

There was more cheering. But Carth wasn’t laughing. Or smiling. His frown reached all the way to his eyes. And it was all for her.

“M____,” Polla whispered--not sure what she was whispering. “Five. Five…  _ what?” _

Xxx

_ “We’re still going with M_____?” Therion said. “Really?” He tilted his head back against the wall of the bulkhead. The flickering fluorescents above them lit the line of his profile from forehead to shoulder. His hair was tangled and filthy. _

_ “Yes.” They’d reached hyperspace. Polla could tell because she was about to be sick. _

_ The refugee transport was packed and stinking. Polla’s scalp itched. Bodies pressed in around them from all sides, but Therion loomed over everyone with that scrap of blanket tucked in an arm against his chest. “There’s no senate registry on Eos. We can still change--”” _

_ “No.” Her own voice, stubborn and clipped, as she scanned the wall and line for the one refresher. Her stomach churned. “We've been over this a hundred times. It’s more than a name. It’s a symbol of what this all means--” _

_ “A… symbol.” Two words, a galaxy between them. His eyes were accusing and colorless. “It? You’re talking about--” _

_ “That hut’tuun cha’kaar isn’t getting away with this. I want him to  _ remember. Someday,  _ when he sees M_____, he’ll remember. We’re going to make him pay.” _

_ Her ex turned away, looking at someone else--someone she couldn’t quite see. “It's a long ride to Coruscant,” he muttered. “This isn't decided--” _

_ Xxx _

She was awake. She was screaming. Her mouth was open, but nothing sounded.

_ M_____. _

“Polla!” Strong arms were suddenly the only things holding Polla up. Her entire body felt limp, like her legs had suddenly stopped working.

“Flyboy?” She looked up at him. Around them, so many faces. So many eyes-- _ eyes.  _ So many bodies all around them. Too many, too close--but even as she thought, they were leaving, edging away, whispering.  _ Whispering _ . “What happened?”

“Think you fainted.” Carth's eyes crinkled at the corner when he smiled, but those eyes looked worried too. “You just kinda keeled over.” Polla was suddenly aware of the strength in his arms, the warmth of his chest against her body. The rother sents behind--the other voices--they ceased to exist. 

The Beks were leaving, rushing past them, chattering, whispering, glancing back at her--at them. That Mandalorian was one of the last. He gave her one flat glance and turned his back.

_ He is nothing. They are all nothing. _

“I never faint.”  _ A long way back to Coruscant. I always wanted to go there. _

_ That wasn’t that Corellian brig we were in. What the hell was that? _

_ Don’t panic. _

_ What the hell  _ was  _ that? _

“You did hit your head pretty hard on the way down from orbit…” Carth’s head tilted toward her, bringing that strong, stubbled chin and that softly-smiling mouth closer.

“Ages ago. _ “How long?  _ “What’re you doing here? I was at the dinner. But you left.”

“Teaching the kids about mines. Imperial troops are chronically undermanned but they seem to have no end of munitions.” The way his eyes locked with hers made Polla not give a frack. “Half our job fighting Malak’s forces has been living through the traps--and stealing their supplies.”

“Oh.” She’d never pictured Captain Obvious as a thief. “Thought you'd be giving out racing tips for tomorrow.”

He shook his head. “The Beks are pulling out, Zaerdra said. They’ll still let us use that one experimental swoop.” Carth frowned. “Thing’s held together with spit and bracing wire, is what my old… uh--that’s what _ I'd  _ say.”

_ The Beks are running scared. For all those kriffing cheers just now, the Hidden Beks don’t want anything to do with our fight. _

_ Our fight? _

She looked up at Carth’s earnest eyes and wondered why a man like this cared so much. His accent was just as Rim as hers. What could the Republic have ever done for him?

“Your old… what? Or you are old?” Polla blinked at Captain Obvious. “You're not that old.”

“I’m old enough to know better.” Carth leaned forward so their faces were comfortably close. Those warm eyes locked on her face. “Old enough to see the holes in this plan of yours to rescue Bastila. Maybe _ I  _ should race tomorrow. Not you. Thought you were going to keel over, just now.”

“All part of  _ my  _ plan.” Polla fluttered her eyelashes like Seriina Staar in a holo-vid. “All part of my plan to get you to hold me like this.”

“Really.” It was the way he stared at her, the way it looked like he already knew that made her lips curve up smug. They’d completed the contract--now it was all about scheduling.

“Look.” Polla reached one arm casually around his neck, finger tracing a slow spiral at the nape of his neck, tickling the short hairs there. Spikes of raw eridu, just as she’d imagined. She felt him shiver. “We went over this before dinner. Mission says the swoop gangs always bring their prizes to the match. Borrow Mission’s stealth belt and sneak your Bastila Shan out while I'm impressing everyone with my racing on that sweet Taris Open track. How hard can it be?”

_ Depends,  _ a cold part of her mind responded.  _ How many guards will be there? How many exits? What kind of weapons will they bring to bear-- _

“I still think I should be the one on the bike.” Carth’s arms tightened around her waist, constricting but oddly pleasant. “I know you’re confident, Polla, but you’re no soldier. If something goes wrong--”

_ You called me ‘soldier’ eight times yesterday and I lost count today. Was that a joke?  _ “Bastila Shan doesn’t know me from Sleheyron. She knows you. And you said yourself you hadn’t ridden a swoop in years. I have.”

“You crashed.”

Polla never should have told him that entire story. “I was drunk and it was dark. I’ll be stone-frozen sober by morning. I got this. You... get the Jedi. Save the galaxy.” She paused, smiling to show him she was halfway joking. “Then get me off this sithspawned rock so I can desert your Republic army.”

“Navy.” His expression was somewhere between exasperation and affection. “Did you read your enlistment docs at all?”

“No.”

“Gadon said our quarters are this way.” Polla looped her arm through Carth’s, dragging him forward. Even through the banthahide of his jacket she could feel strength in his forearm. Hard. Muscled. Unmistakably male.

_ “Our  _ quarters?” No mistaking the husk in his voice either. “I might like the sound of that.”

“There’s some good sounds.” Polla leaned into him. She definitely had that feeling now, low and warm and pleasant. She set her voice to sultry. “Wanna see what kind of flopcube your rebel army’s given us, Captain?”

Xxx

“Yes.” In that instant, Carth wanted a great deal more than that, but this wasn’t the time or place--or (probably) the girl. But Polla’s arm locked onto his, and her body was warm against his side. He glanced down and met those half-lidded, deceptively lazy eyes. “Lead the way, soldier.”

_ She's not your girl _ .  _ She's not right in the head. Maybe… maybe someday--when you're both off this planet, when she's had a full medical work-up-- _

Carth felt his face flush, and  then he twisted out of her grip. “One sec,” he lied. “Gotta buckle my shoe.”  _ Not that I think there's anything wrong, not that she’s got the Rodese itch--just someone to check her scans again. She's still so damned confusing. Civilians don't fight like she did, but she doesn't seem to know anything about this war--or the Fleet-- _

“Okay.” She kept walking when he knelt down. Carth glanced up--and wished he hadn’t. How she made that tattered jumpsuit look good was… maybe a thought best kept for the bunk.

_ Legs,  _ he thought.  _ I’d call you legs, if you were mine. _

Then Carth remembered his first thought about the Deralian--that Polla Organa had been a Sith prisoner. Some kind of Jedi charity project--and his ardor finally backed the hell down.

_ Maybe someday. Maybe after she’s had some more help, when I know she’s okay-- _

He sighed, and started following, keeping a healthy distance back so she couldn’t grab him again.

_ “ _ There's room for two walking down this hall,” Polla didn’t turn around. “There a reason you're walking a meter behind me?”

“I-I was thinking.”

“Just thinking? Not watching?” She glanced back.

That damned smile again. Carth wanted to take her in his arms and wipe it off her mouth. With his mouth. Then he’d pull those buckles on her jumpsuit down, slip his hand around her bare back, slide his hand down where that fabric was torn on that creamy thigh--

_ Are you nuts? She's not right in the head. She’s confused, maybe still concussed. _

“Carth?” The Deralian took a step forward, still smiling. “Captain Flyboy?” She lifted her hand and beckoned to him. “Come here.”

“Why?” The tease in his voice was natural, it  _ felt  _ natural--good, even. “Here?” He wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. But this wasn't-- “We can’t. I can't. Not… not now.”

It never went well when he'd tried--even with the non-concussed. Morgana was always there, behind every smile, every soft sigh. And then after, the terrible emptiness that wasn't even guilt--just a feeling like he'd lost something he'd never have again.  _ My wife. My son. Our world. _

“Oh.” Polla frowned. “But you… you seem like you wanted--”

“You're gorgeous,” he realized by her frown that wasn’t the compliment she was fishing for. “But… I'm your commanding officer. It's not right.”

_ You found that out with Ensign Mirabel, Lieutenant SE’chak, and First Sargeant Quieko already, Onasi. Don't do anything you’ll regret by morning. _

The Deralian snorted. “But I quit the war, Flyboy. I'm helping because I want to.” Her frown deepened. “I'm helping because I like  _ you.” _

“It's mutual.” Carth’s voice felt rocky. “But this is a bad time. I'm not really… free. My… my wife--”

“Oh!” The seductive smile snapped off Polla Organa’s face so quickly Carth had to wonder if it had ever been real at all. ”You’re married? You  _ should  _ have just said that.”

_ On this planet, I was starting to think everyone knew. Guess Polla never heard the song. _

“I'm saying it now. I-I would… otherwise, I--”

Polla Organa just stood there watching him squirm. “I'm coming off a bad break-up myself,” she offered finally, the frown still in her voice as much as on her face. “My ex tried to set me up to take the fall with the Exchange, but I… I got out of it. Not easily.” She rubbed her head, along the shaved line below her topknot where the trace of a scar was still visible in some lights. Not now, but Carth knew it was there. “I dream about him. Sometimes.”

“I got that idea. You talk in your sleep,” Carth told her. “His name’s Mahl-Eyyym or something, right? Malla-Chyme?”

“No. Therion.” She frowned. “Mahl… Eyyym? Where the hell did you get that?”

_ It's what you say. Over and over again.  _ Mahl-Eyyym  _. Mullime.  _ There were other words too. But he'd never made sense of them.

“Mahl-Eyyym?” Polla snorted. “Mullime to you too, Pig-Man.”

“What?” He felt his smile happen, even if it didn't make sense. “Excuse me?”

“Mahl-Eyyym. Mull-eeyyyym.” She gave the word a strange, guttural trill. “Means frack, basically. In High Toydarian.” Her smile made it look like she was joking, but Carth wasn't sure. “So make up your mind. You want to mullime with me now or not?”

“I think you're mullimming with  _ me,  _ now,” Carth shot back.

“She's a lucky woman,” Polla muttered. “She, right? Not he?”

“Yeah, she…”  _ she wasn’t lucky enough. They weren't.  _ “She… my wife.”

“It's fine.” Polla had started walking again, hands in her pockets, walking backwards without even looking. She tossed her head and the topknot flipped over her eyes. “Some Mandalorian told me I married his friend the other day. I don't think it was legal--but maybe I should look him up.”

Carth had managed to put how easily she'd gotten on with those Mandalorians out of his head--even thought she’d just smacked it in his face again less than five minutes ago. “You do that,” he muttered.  _ “After  _ we save Bastila and the others.”

_ “After  _ I win the race. I think Zaerdra said our room was the tenth door on the right? This one?” The Deralian stopped in front of an ordinary-looking security door and tapped the panel. It slid open, revealing a narrow room with one set of bunks, each narrow enough to barely fit one.

_ Cocked again, Onasi. Like you didn't do it to yourself. _

“I call top bunk,” Polla said, smirking slightly. “That okay with you, Captain Obvious?”

“Sure.” He faked a yawn. “I’ll get some shut-eye now.”

“You do that.” Polla jumped up, graceful as a song, and rolled onto the top bunk as if she'd been sleeping military-style all her life.

“Mahl-Eyyym--  _ Mullime--”  _ she whispered five minutes later, tossing and turning in the bunk overhead--but Carth was used to that by now.

“Mal-Eym to you too, sister.” He raised his hand in an imaginary toast and closed his eyes.

_ Xxx _

“You sure you got the time right, Riek?” Morning always came slow on this side of Taris. But here in the kriffing Lower City, Canderous wasn't sure how anyone could tell.

He looked around at the near-empty stands, the nervous-looking, fat announcer, the swoop bikes stacked haphazardly by the track awaiting inspection. Only four other bikes--meaning only four other racers had decided to show. Most years, the Taris Open had at least three times that.

Two suited-up marks were chatting over by the start-line. Even visored and faceless, they screamed nerves. That was off too.

“Yes.” Riek polished the visor on his helmet for the twentieth time, his face a hidden oval under the duraglass. “I got the time right, Canderous.”

“You sure you want to do this?”

“You said yourself, the clans are gone. I want a future.” Riek set the helmet on his head. “Swoop racing takes skill. And risk. It has its own honor.”

“Risk. Hah!” Canderous began to scoff, but then he thought about how this scion of Wies would never ride a real basilisk, never wade into battle with the point of his sword bloody--and then he just felt sorry for the kid again.

_ At least my son died with honor. _

“Maybe we’ll even get a real fight,” he allowed, glancing around the stands. Rumor said the Sith Imps had taken out half the Vulkar base, but the remaining Vulkar gang members were now clustered in a small knot near the bikes. Even from this distance their leader Brejik was easy to spot--half a head taller than the rest with a shock of yellow hair. While Canderous watched, Brejik gestured at the Gamorreans standing next to a freight hauler and they rolled open its door and floated out two porta-prisons on hover-boards.

“Sha’buir, they trade in people.” Riek spat on the ground. “For _ credits.  _ No chance for Clan. Not like keeping proper slaves at all.”

_ Our man Davik trades in flesh as well.  _ But Canderous spat too. “Cheer up.” He slapped the boy on the back. “Maybe capturing those Jett’ai’ll piss off the Republic enough to send in their real invasion force. Give us a challenging fight.”

“You think?” Riek was still green enough to be hopeful. “Maybe we can even fight on their side.”

“Your grandfather would roll in his grave to hear that.” But Canderous chuckled. “Don't think your father would have liked it either.”

_ The Core lost its spark when it lost Revan and Malak. If we'd had our ships still it would have been a prize for us then-- _

“The Sith are animals,” Riek declared, with all the forthright idealism of the very young.

_ All sents are animals when it is their season. _ But this was no time for philosophy.

“Huh.” Canderous squinted at the two cages with their prisoners more closely. “Guess those rumors weren’t osik after all. See the Jett’ai woman? That’s Shan. Hope of the Republic. She has Force magic that can turn the tide of battle. I don’t know if I ever told you the story about the time my clan went into battle for the Dar’Jett Ulic Qel-Droma against Nomi Sunrider’s squadron--”

“Only a few times.” Flash of teeth under that visor as the kid smiled.

“It was glorious.”

“And you lost.”

Canderous scoffed. “That made no difference until the very end.”

Bastila Shan’s head was bowed and her eyes were closed. From this distance, she could have been unconscious. A gold band on her forehead looked like Jedi jewelry, but was probably one of those Force-blockers the women of his clans had begun to hand out in the latter half of the war for Jett’ai prisoners. Next to Shan’s cage was another with an Ithorian in it. Looked like a young one from the yellow skin--he was wearing one of the gold crowns too--but awkwardly on his hammer-shaped brow.

“We might wanna leave,” Canderous added, glancing at the kid. A good fight would be glorious, but glory wasn’t suicide--getting stuck between the dar’jett and their prize would be. If Shan was here, he expected Malak’s attack kath to sniff her out soon. “Hope’s no ordinary prisoner, Riek.”

“You may go, but I’m staying.” Kid glared at him with the expression his father used to give when Canderous got between the man and a salvaged repeater. “I will win the race and give the Jett’ai princess her freedom.”

“Jett’ai ain't worth it--” But inwardly Canderous was proud.

“It’s not only for  _ her _ ,” Riek insisted stubbornly. “I do this for my own honor as well.”

“Hah.” Canderous grunted. “Fair enough. Make it kandosii, eh?” He slapped the kid on the back.

_ If the Sith robes show up it will be a rout, but we’ll go down fighting. _

Xxx

They gathered in the nearly empty viewing stands to make their final preparations before the race. Polla felt weird, as if maybe that second breakfast she’d coaxed from the Beks’ kitchen droid had been a bad idea.

“There’s Bastila.” Carth sounded relieved. “In that cage. And I think that’s Padawan Elias with her too. Two Jedi. We just need to get them free.”

“Careful, geezer,” Mission warned him. “Stealth belt’s only good at a distance. Move too fast or get under those lights--they’ll shoot you first and then wonder why. Brejik don’t like nobody on his track.”

[“This smells like it could end badly,”] Zaalbar yowled.

Polla stared at the bike the Beks had hovered over to the starting line before they all scarpered, faster than womprats in ferra grass. It was a sweet ride, all right: finned and narrow, with the modified thrusters sticking out from the back, like wings.

_ Weird, how the Beks aren't sticking around to watch me win this thing. Something has that old man spooked. _

The Jedi themselves sure didn’t look like much. Two in cages. A Human woman wearing a costume that would look underdressed on Zeltros; and an Ithorian kid who was only marginally better off. Each in their own containment cell, surrounded by that flickering blue-white light she knew all too well from the unfortunate experience in that Corellian jail. 

_ Better them than me-- _

A wave of dizziness passed over her and for a sec Polla was looking  _ up  _ at the stands instead of down: her own top-knotted figure cutting quite the picture in the impractically-tight jumpsuit, helmet tucked under her arm; standing by Carth and the kid, half-blocked by the Wookiee--

_ That’s… weird. _

Everything seemed bathed in a flickering blue light, and then her vision snapped back again--looking down at the Human woman below in the cage, dark head turned up toward Polla, eyes wide, mouth half-open as if in surprise--

Polla’s head ached, and her vision swam, looking up at her own face, looking down at the other face.

In this light, did her eyes look green?  _ They are green. Eyes change color, remember?  _ Polla squinted, trying to make the world align itself in its proper place.

_ Did someone spike my caff? _

“Polla?” Carth nudged her, shocking her back into the present. “It’s showtime.”

“You're welcome for the security spikes and the stealth belt, Captain Obvious.” Mission grinned. “By the way.”

“Okay.” It felt like something was pressing down on all of them.  _ From the sky. There’s something bad up there. _

_ No. Not the sky. It’s closer than that now. _

But the pilot’s voice was a warm breath in her ear. “Once Bastila and Elias are free that will even the odds. The Vulkars have about a dozen men. I’m good for four--if I get enough range. And Jedi are no joke in battle. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen one fight--”

“No, I--” She shook her head sharply. Had Gadon Thek drugged her? Could this all be a trap? “Just in Sixthday cartoons. Hey, there’s almost no one here. Isn't that weird?” She felt… off, like hessi were walking over her grave instead of that strange mix of excitement and fear she always got before a race. And then the world tilted--

XXX

_ \--haze of yellow light, bisected by red. Something was screaming through her skull-- _

_ M___, she thought. Screaming. Mal. I’m-- _

XXX

“Polla?”

[“Cub?”] Zaalbar nudged her with a heavy paw. [“If you cannot race, there is no shame.”]

“Relax! I'm fine!” She forced a laugh. “See me to the floor, Captain?”

“Sure.” Carth matched her smile, but his concern felt like a small and annoying sun at her side.

They made their way down to the floor. Her bike was waiting next to a nervous-looking mechanic with Vulkar sigils on his jacket and tattooed on his muscular arms. She found herself staring at those tattoos, at the hydrospanner the man had clutched in his hand--weighted right, it could make a decent weapon in a pinch if things got rocky--

“Whoa, are you okay, Miz?” The mechanic looked between them, looking all the world like a scared kid.

Polla blinked.“Yes. I mean… yeah.” She'd pulled her visor down at some point. It was blurry through the windguard covering her own face, bisected with lines as her targeting sensors tried to compensate.

_ Nerves. Nerves before the race. Just breathe. _

“Maybe I should take the track--” Carth’s arms were holding her upright, suddenly… which wasn't bad, but--

_ Married, remember? _

“No. I got this.” Polla swung a leg over the bike before Flyboy could object. Four other riders were getting ready too--her eyes noted the lines of their bikes, dismissing the men. One had no visible insignia; the other bore marks from one of the generic Exchange rigs. Same on every planet.  _ The Lost Nexu or some crap  _ . Bunch of slavers.

_ People aren’t prizes.  _ Polla fracking hated slavers. She was suddenly glad so many Black Vulkars had already died. “Get cracking,” she muttered to Carth as he bent down over her. Her breath brushed his ear, ruffling that raw eridu hair. “Get to the shadows, make with the stealth and get your Jedi free. Just let me win the race first, okay?”

“Take mark!” the announcer called.

“Be careful.” 

“What, no kiss?” She winked under her visor, laughing at his sudden confusion.

The fat man at the podium chimed the ready tones. “Ten minute warning! Civs off the track!”

“My cue.” Polla leaned back, trying to get a feel for the bike. Balance felt… off. “Relax. Go break your Jedi girlfriend out of stir, handsome.”

“Handsome.” The pilot raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Are you trying to make my girlfriend jealous?”

“Should I?” Polla twisted the throttle and was rewarded with a soft purr. Kind of creepy how empty the stands were, but she flashed a smile at the hovering holo-cam--

_ \--her eyes opened on empty rows of seats before her, stretching to near the ceiling. The roar of engines and chatter drew her attention to a row of five bikes and a knot of humanoid figures standing near-- _

“Polla? You okay?” Handsome nudged her. “They’re moving up to the start.”

“Civ’s off the track!” the announcer called again behind them.

“Yeah, I….” For a dizzying second, Polla felt like she saw  _ herself.  _ But it was just the woman in the cage. That fracking Jedi.

Polla’s head turned toward the cages. The visor over her face was suddenly stifling. She pushed it up--

Xxx

“Well, well, well. What are the odds?” Calo hadn't expected anything about this excuse for a riot to give up anything, but here they were as rumored: Bastila Shan in a cage, and--the... thing. The thing was wearing a skin-tight swoop suit, gaping at Bastila Shan as if she was as surprised as Calo was.

“I have to tell Tio they’re both here,” Selven murmured, voice a buzz in his ear on their secure channel even if the woman herself was across on the other side of the stands. “It’s in the contract.”

Calo nodded at her. Of course it was. But nothing in their contract said that he couldn't also inform  _ his  _ employers.

**Query://action?** He sent the image through the stars to their shared overseer.

**Notify Jedi,** the response came back quickly this time, as if the Genoharadan had finally chosen a side.  **Master Vrook Lamar.**

XXX

“Make the reception work properly.” The Lady Sheris Darkstar glared at the tech her captain had sent--a nervous Sullustan navigator Second Class, who seemed more afraid of Malak’s consort than awed.

They were at least ten days out from Manaan, and the Taris Swoop Open was scheduled to begin any moment. Sheris had become a fan of the black-market broadcasts when Beya started betting on them. Although the games of credits were jejune, Sheris enjoyed trying to select which wretched slum-child from the Tarisian gutters would win. Of course, if Lord Malak saw fit to bomb the entire planet for the death of Bastila Shan, this would also be the  _ last  _ season of the Taris Swoop Open. There was a swoop track on Manaan, but there it was a different sport entirely there--far too polished to be interesting.

As with everything on the dreary fish planet.

“Scrambled… need to enter the right codes--there!” Sheris’s tech did something to the panel behind the projector and the screen’s image resolved.

“They were blocking it,” he added. “Unscrambling took a few jimmies, but Siledge in engineering, he's got a cousin who runs with the Vulkars. They always use the racer’s times from the first heats the year before.”

His words faded to inconsequence as Sheris stared at the vid-screen. One of the racers had raised her visor. The image was blurry but the woman was beautiful enough to attract attention--a perfectly symmetrical balance of cheek to jaw, with wide-set eyes under gracefully arched brows. The camera zoomed in, revealing more focus: a tilted nose, a pointed chin with the hint of a cleft. The eyes were bright and focused, thickly-lashed; the mouth bowed, with a sulky lower lip--

Behind her, the Sullustan gave a startled gasp, which only confirmed that Sheris wasn’t losing her mind. She felt her hands curl into fists, nails biting into her palms.  _ It’s impossible.  _

“Lady Sheris, that’s--”

Her head whipped around, giving the small man the full force of her glare. “Tell no one,” she warned him.

Sheris had studied that face for far too long not to see the resemblance--even before it had been her own.

If Beya was here she could kill this witness. But death made Sheris nauseous. “It’s a trick, Navigator Yee. Merely a holomask double… of mine. You may leave now.”

The man gave a startled squeak. The door hissed open. His tiny feet pattered out.

Sheris let out a slow breath, taking in the rest of the screen. To add insult to injury, she also recognized the curvaceous woman behind her duplicate, locked in a cage next to a similarly imprisoned Ithorian.

The pieces of logic assembled themselves with horrible certainty: Bastila Shan was still alive on Taris. Malak had sent Sheris away--

_ My love lied to  _ me.

A woman was on Taris with  _ her _ face, dressed like a swoop racer, smiling for holo-cams without a care in the galaxy--

_ Holo-mask. Surgery. Another duplicate cast from the Star Forge. Clone. Identical twin separated at birth-- _

It wasn’t until Sheris felt the duraplast cut into her hand that she realized she’d half-crushed the console’s control.

She closed her eyes.  _ There is no passion.  _ “Voice command.”

“Activated,” the comm-link chimed. “Vocal parameters accepted. Welcome, Revan Starfire.”

It had been pure vanity, that Sheris never had the central commands of  _ Grave Bright  _ altered. Pure pride--for what a clever mimic she’d become.

“Malak’s private link,” she snapped. Her voice rang like a bell. “Ping until response.”

Xxx

“My lord? You summoned me?” Not only had Lord Malak interrupted her schemes to destroy him and Arkan together, but now the man was making Beya miss the Taris Swoop Open, hosted this year by the Lower City gang, the Black Vulkars.

For that reason, Beya didn't bother to hide the disdain in her voice as she approached.

The Dark Lord of the Sith turned from the window overlooking the Taris skyline. He inclined his head, giving Beya a formal Coruscanti bow. “My dear Beya.”

_ Dear?  _ Her nerves told her to flee now. “My Lord Malak.”

A low chuckle came from her master’s voder. “You know I can see the shape of your thoughts, Beya.”

“Of course, master.” Davad always underestimated their master. It could be his doom. But if he made some foolish mistake without her--

Malak’s voice dropped to a tone that he considered pleasant. “What are you afraid Arkan will do?”

As a knight, Malak had been more sensitive than most to the thoughts of others. The Force rarely granted free access to another’s mind, but there was a predictive affinity that Knight D’Reev had possessed, a subtlety few could match. With his fall much of that had been lost, but he was still dangerously good at sensing sedition in their ranks, and at gleaning the intention behind words.

With effort, Beya sank her thoughts to a narrow focus: Revan’s face. Easy, since it was Sheris’s too. She closed her eyes, remembering the way the woman’s face freckled in the sun, that cool smile on her perfectly bowed lips--that tangled mass of braids trailing down her back--

“Arkan will do nothing, my lord. Nothing that he hasn’t done before.” She let the smile cross her face slowly, feeling the Force nearly crackle with Malak’s predictable jealousy as the intimation was made.

_ I think of Arkan. I think of Revan. You would have to be blind not to infer the obvious-- _

“Careful.” Malak paced back and forth in front of her. Somewhere to the right, the terrified Tarisian governor was cowering at his desk--not at all honored to be hosting the ruler of his planet in his not-so-humble quarters of gilt and stone. “Did Arkan find her? Our… mutual friend?”

The governor praying to his gods in the corner was a dead man walking already, but Beya followed dear old Mal’s lead and didn't name Revan. “Not yet.” She expected Bandon had already informed him--that would explain his continued presence on the planet. “Vik and Bandon investigated reports of revolutionary activity in the Lower City yesterday.” She pulled the double-sided saber out from her vest and placed it on the table before them. “They found this.”

Immediately Beya realized she'd managed to shock him. At least for a millisecond, those damned eyes looked almost human. Malak’s voder hissed. “That’s Red’s weapon--”

“It’s not.” Although it was curious, Beya supposed, that Shan had adopted the same yellow double-bladed style of saber that the Starfire had brought back into fashion. “Crystals retain the resonance of their owners.” She moved her hand to roll the staff closer toward him, letting it hover in the air. “Savor hers.”

The weapon flew into Malak’s hand and one side ignited, burning a pale, clear yellow, the color of sunlight.

Behind them, the governor made a strangled noise, as if he was frightened for his life. As if either of them would care.

“Shan,” the Sith Lord murmured through his voder. His eyes fluttered closed, and he took a long, hissing breath. The other side of the blade ignited too. “She is… so young.”

_ “It  _ seems to think she's alive,” Beya noted. Not a clear metric, but the khyber tended to dim when the spark of their masters went out. This staff’s twin beams shone with a perfect, unblemished clarity.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, it does.” Malak switched the particle beams off and attached Shan’s lightstaff to his own belt.

Beya had a momentary thought for Revan’s weapon. Would its crystals know her now?

_ No Deralian smuggler ever wielded a blade.  _ The thought made her melancholy, although of course, Polla Organa’s shade was doomed--fated to be killed by Malak, or ending up as Arkan’s pet--and there was no use getting attached.

“The staff might have been taken from Shan’s body.” Malak’s tension made it evident he did not want to believe that.

“Yes,” Beya agreed. “But the crystals--”

A commlink chimed in Lord Malak’s wrist. He glanced at it once and then back at her and nodded, his gaze narrowing. “You and Arkan insisted Shan was dead before.”

“It was the most logical assumption. She was trapped in a rakghoul-infested sewer.” Beya smiled back at him.

Xxx

_ Damn Lord Malak to the ice pits of hell!  _ It was a thought Sheris would never voice out loud. But her mind ran through an entire Sith-scroll of curses as she paced back and forth across the floor of her quarters, watching Malak’s private comm-link pulse red as her lover ignored her.

Again, she glanced up at the face, now frozen and magnified until it was several times larger than her own, looming above her in flickering blue light like some kind of apparition. Behind it, Sheris’s figure reflected in the ferraglass window--shrunken, like  _ she  _ was the ghost instead.

_ He's replaced me with a newer copy. _

The face on the screen had a smile Sheris had never seen in the mirror. Fearless, lips twisted, almost a smirk. The helmet hid her hair, the blue light reduced her to the status of a ghost, but the shape of the eyes, the chin, the…

**“Sheris?”** His voice, finally responding. Metallic and familiar as the touch of cold metal on her skin.  **“This is not a good time--”**

_ He sent me away to replace me.  _ Sheris choked back a sob and stared at the green comm light, abruptly cutting the connection before trying another.

Xxx

“Lover’s quarrel?” Beya mocked, taking a step back, as Malak’s heavy head swung back in her direction.

Almost immediately her own com begun to buzz softly against her wrist.

“We are not finished, Lady Organa.” Malak breathed faster, making the voder hiss with the effort. “Has Arkan found Revan or not?”

“Yes. But then she escaped, my lord. Slipped from his grasp.” Beya let the truth of that pulse through her. Images of Davad slaughtering the rakghouls dancing in her mind.

Those yellow-tinged eyes narrowed. “Ah,” he breathed. “And meanwhile you did nothing.”

“Arkan is stronger than he appears.  _ More  _ than he appears. Did you know that?” Beya shrugged and stared at the floor. “I have no desire for a pointless death. I can’t cross him openly, Lord Malak. Not without…  _ your  _ backing.”

“He will find her,” Malak mused.

“Of course.” She kept the face firmly in mind, no longer sure if it was Sheris’s or her childhood friend. “He’s a man obsessed.”  

Her comm-link buzzed, abruptly louder. Beya glanced down.

“Is that him now?” Malak merely sounded amused.

“No.” It was Sheris. “Just a… personal friend.”

“With red hair?” 

She dared not answer.

XXX

The swoop gang’s base had been deserted, but Davad followed the spoor of one of its most recent scavengers--from the prints, a half-grown child too foolish to notice they'd left tracks of still-damp effluvia halfway across the quadrant.

Those prints ended abruptly, half in and half out of what appeared to be a blank wall.

Malak had come groundside again this morning. Beya had gone to report Bandon’s findings to Malak in person--so there could be no accusation of conspiracy. 

It made him vulnerable, Davad mused.

_ My shadows could plant charges around the Taris governor’s palace. I could take the entire platform down with one well-placed bolt from my ship on high-- _

**You will not. Your purpose is** **_hers._ ** **She is alive. Bring her to me.**

“On Malachor, Master?” He knew better, but Davad still turned his head to look for the old woman. She could be behind him. She could be light years away. She could be his own madness, and he would never know the difference.

The corridor was empty and lifeless, but on the other side of the wall, life teemed--suddenly upending like a cannock's nest upturned as their hidden security noted his presence. No trace of her scent in the air, but the other--faint--that odor of wet kath and mud--

No doubt the duracrete plates concealed a hidden door. He did not bother to search for it. Davad merely pulled out his saber and began cutting through the wall.

Xxx

“I will order my operatives to locate her--” Beya’s wrist comm chimed opportunely and she glanced down to silence it, hitting the bar for disconnect even as the code flashed on her wrist.

_ Sen. Snake-eyes. Sheris. _

Her eyes darted back up to Malak.

“Am I keeping you from something?” His brow lowered above those burning eyes.

“No, my lord.” But Beya’s concentration splintered. “Davad is already investigating every gang base  _ personally.  _ If any of them have Shan, he will have her, and then how shall we proceed?”

“With simplicity.” Malak folded his hands behind his back. “We have the might to burn this ecumenopolis into eternal darkness. In the years since Telos, I think our citizens of the Rim have forgotten what being our subjects  _ requires _ .” He raised one hand and tapped his prosthesis, as a lesser man would stroke his beard. “They may need a new example of what happens to the disloyal. Shan and my wife will both die here--and this cesspool with them.”

The governor of Taris had clambered half-under his desk. The Human was too well-trained to make a sound, but Beya was amused by his horrified expression.

Her own comm-link had lapsed into silence.

Abruptly, Malak’s buzzed again. “Sheris?” he hissed, hitting the switch to connect. “I told you. This is not a good time--”

Beya composed her features to reflect nothing as the woman’s face sketched in hologram above their heads. Those brilliant eyes were wide and shocked, and there was a tremor in the lower lip. Sheris looked frightened, but that was normal. Useful, for a weak and beautiful Sith among the strong. It had been one of the things that Beya found attractive--at first, before she realized the ruse of fear concealed such a clever mind, so different from her childhood friend’s--and so much more entertaining.

It wasn't until the woman spoke that Beya realized the passion in those eyes came from an emotion more primal than fear.

Sheris was furious.  **“What is she, Malak? A clone? Another Star Forge copy?”**

“Sheris.” The word rumbled in Malak’s throat. “Calm yourself!” His own rage still simmered in the Force, but Beya felt the slow spark of it ignite, and raised her own mental shields as much as she dared, wishing she dared to edge closer to the door. Stronger Dark Jedi than she had been caught in Malak’s Force conflagrations--caught and burned. When D’Reev lost all control, he was little more than Arkan hunting those rakghouls--a ravening force of nature--the embodiment of the dark side’s destruction.

Malak's head whipped toward Beya again and she froze, her own fear stinking in her mouth.  Her hand went to the saber on her belt.

“Did you betray me?” Deceptive softness in that metallic whisper. “Did you tell my consort?”

“No.” The word felt lost in the sudden harsh pounding of Beya’s own heart. She shook her head, resisting the sudden urge to grovel, prostate herself before him. She had felt this before in Malak’s presence, this all-consuming animal loss of control, this subservience that made her very bowels nearly loosen--

**“Her!”** The screen widened behind them, revealing the still of a face--an all-too-familiar face. Magnified and hanging over Sheris, The size made Malak's consort look too small in the holo-field, shrinking her to a quarter of the screen.  **“That woman has** **_my_ ** **face.** **_Mine!_ ** **Who is she?”**

“A husk.” Maybe Malak’s lie would sound more realistic broadcast through hyperspace. “Nothing, my love. The Jedi created her from the shell of my wife--”

**“Your… wife?”** That voice dripped ice.  **“Your** **_dead_ ** **wife?”**

The acid in Sheris’s voice was like a shock to her senses. Beya’s focus snapped back into place. Her pulse slowed, and the fear choking her like a miasma dissipated so abruptly that Beya finally realized its origin.

_ Malak. He… projects fear. Like Nicosia projects her illusions. Oh. That explains so much-- _

“Where did you see… her?” Malak’s boots clicked on the floor as he paced back and forth. “Did someone send you a recording? Was it Arkan?”

For a mad second, Beya imagined that Polla Organa’s copy had somehow managed to slip aboard Sheris’s ship, or been planted there by one of their peers with a twisted sense of humor.  _ Vik. He would do something like that, perhaps. Or Bandon. _

**“She’s on the Holo-Net. Right now! She’s racing in the Taris Open. My captain was kind enough to patch a line through because I wanted to watch the race--”** Sheris’s head turned, as if she’d just noticed Beya was standing there too.  **“Hello, Beya.”**

“Lady Sheris.” Every muscle still felt tensed. Beya began to relax them one-by-one. “Did she win the race?”  _ I had no chance to place bets. If I had known-- _

**“Did you know she was alive too?”** Sheris demanded.

“Yes. It was... classified information.” Before Malak, what did his lover expect her to say?

“She’s… doing what? Racing? Racing  _ what?”  _ Malak’s mechanical voice sounded shocked. It probably would upset Sheris to see him die before her eyes, Beya reflected, but she was tempted to stab him in the back right here and now just for making her so falsely frightened before.

He glanced back at her, yellow eyes narrowed, and Beya found herself taking a step backwards instead.

“The shell thinks she a Deralian smuggler. That’s the Redemption the Jedi chose for her.” Beya found courage to speak. “Deralians race swoops. Haven’t I mentioned this before?”

Malak whirled to face her, eyes glittering with cold fury. “No. You did not. Do you know where this race is being held?”

_ Yes. _

“N-not exactly, my lord. The race itself is unsanctioned.” Beya spared the poor, doomed governor of the planet another glance. “There are several abandoned tracks that the gangs use on the lower levels. If we could see more of the area--”

**“Beya?”** Sheris interrupted. “  **You should have told me.”**

“I could not tell you.” Beya lowered her head to hide her mutinous expression. “I was not  _ allowed  _ to tell you. No one was supposed to know.”

**“I am** ** _not_** **no one.** **This concerns me. Directly. And… and both of you… just--you just let her go!”** There was a choked sob and the commlink cut out.

Beya let out a long breath.  _ Think of her face.  _ But… against her will a different scene appeared. The swoop track, looping through the old industrial center of Lower Taris--

“You know precisely where Revan is.” That dark voice echoed in Beya’s skull. She blinked and Malak was so close she could feel the hiss of his voder’s exhaust, smell the hot, stinking wind of it on her face. “I can see the shape of your thoughts, Deralian.” Those mad eyes narrowed, and Beya felt the full thrust of his words, like cold plasma fire in her gut, leaving her a gibbering, sniveling husk.  **“You will take me to my wife, Beya Organa. Now.”**

Xxx

On the screen projected against the stars the crowd cheered. Phantom voices echoed like ghosts through the rooms of her chambers.

On the screen someone had won a heat of their imbecilic race.

Sheris no longer cared who.

She raised her hand and a small spark of lightning sputtered and spat. With a hiss and a small explosion the projector died--bringing an end to the spectacle.

The phantom face winked out.

“My… my lord.” Sheris preferred lady, even if it was no proper title. Usually her crew remembered, but navigator seemed flummoxed. “Did… did you want to return to Taris? Or--ah, what are your orders?”

_ Return to Taris? As what? A copy that Malak has already cast away? _

_ Beya calls herself my friend. She wants more than that. And she still betrayed me-- _

“No,” Sheris said coolly. “We will continue to Manaan, but first….”

“Yes?” The man was falling all over himself to escape, no doubt to gossip to his fellows. Beya would have taken his tongue. Malak would have just killed him. Sheris didn't care. He helped fly the ship.

“First we will stop on Korriban,” she murmured. “There is someone I need to see.”

And a debt to be collected.

Xxx

They scattered like leaves as Davad walked through their hall, all except two--

The two were an old Human man with white orbs for eyes and a pale, shapely Twi’lek. The man was unarmed. The woman carried a blaster, foolishly pointed at Davad.

“Let's skip the pleasantries,” he said, keeping his voice sweet to calm the raging fire of his heart. “I know your gangs are behind the attempts to destabilize these sublevels and rally your people against Malak’s rule.  _ You  _ should know I'm not here to arrest you for rebellion. I merely seek--”

“She’s at the swoop track,” the old man interrupted. “She demanded the right to race in the Taris Open and we granted her wish.”

“She did what?” Davad coughed. “I'm looking for Revan. Revan Starfire. Just so… so there is no confusion.”

“She calls herself Polla Organa.” The old man’s voice was steady and astonishingly brave. “But I remember her.” He took a deep breath. “I remember you too, Knight Arkan.”

“Ah,” Davad said lightly. “That is a pity.”  _ I might have let you live. _

Xxx

_ “This time we won. Thanks to you kids.” The dark-skinned mechanic wiped the sweat from his eyes with a ragged piece of cloth. “Rumor says you're leaving us.” _

_ “The Mando’ade put bases on Dxun.” That was highly classified intelligence, according to their mentor Dodonna, but who would a Lower City mech tell? “We need to flush them out. At least they've been driven from this world, Citizen… ah….” The man had told Davad his name at least five times. Davad was slightly embarrassed when it did not spring immediately to his lips. _

_ “Thek. Gadon Thek.” The man’s smile shifted. “I know this is just another fight for you Jedi, but it's our lives--” _

_ Davad tried to make it a joke. “These days it feels like fighting  _ is  _ our lives, Gadon.” _

_ “Well, you’re good at it.” The man picked up the assault cannon Davad had asked him to retro-fit and handed it to him. “This should be good for grenades now. Aim’s gonna be sloppy but with your Jedi magic--” _

_ “The Force isn’t magic.” Davad chuckled. “How many times do I need to tell you?” _

XXX

“If you remember me, Gadon Thek, you should know I no longer use the title of ‘Jedi Knight.’” Davad felt the darkness creep into his voice, like a sweet taste on his lips. “Now. Tell me where the swoop track is--”

“No! Gadon! You can’t!” The woman fired, but it was easily deflected back into her heart--

She collapsed like an old sack. Next to her, the old man flinched.

“Tell me,” Davad repeated. His saber burned in his hand now, soothing and red.  **“You want to tell me.”**

“I--” The man’s jaw jerked hard and he shook his head. Blood welled between his lips and Davad realized what he’d done. It was nearly impossible to sever one’s own tongue, but the injury could be quite severe--enough to preclude speech---

Davad’s comm chimed suddenly. He glanced down. A message from Beya.

**Malak commands you join us. Immediately.**

The coordinates placed their location on a level below this one but not far--in the old Industrial zone. There could only be one reason why Lord Malak would sully himself with a descent into these levels.

Davad was halfway there before he realized he had forgotten to kill the old man.

There was no time to go back.

Xxx

“No!” Next to Carth, Mission jerked awake with a start, sitting up straight, her eyes wide with an expression that looked like fear.

The Wookiee next to her rumbled a low growl that made Carth immediately sit up too.

The racers were still setting up below, but something seemed to be delaying the damned start. It made Carth damn uneasy--an emotion not helped by seeing Bastila Shan and that Ithorian kid jailed like k’lor’slug bait.

“What's wrong?” Carth glanced down again to make sure Polla hadn't done anything new--but there she was, talking animatedly to the racer next to her, some muscular guy, all but indistinguishable in the tight jumpsuits they all wore, the round helmets. Her visor was up even thought he'd told her to keep it down, told her people might be looking for them.

Damn Deralian had more heart than sense.

“N-nothing.” Didn't look like nothing. Mission looked like she was on the verge of tears. “Is it cold in here? I feel… cold.”

Zaalbar rumbled another low growl and wrapped his arm around her. The kid snuggled in with him with such easy familiarity that a part of Carth’s chest ached.

_ How long since-- _

“Mark!” The announcer strode forward to the blinking yellow line.

Behind him, the racers all got on their bikes.

“They're going at once?” Carth hadn't expected that. “That track isn't wide enough.”

“That's part of the trick,” Mission told him. “Your girlfriend says it’s no big. She's run group heats all the time.”

Carth too had heard the stories. “Yeah, but that--”

She wasn't even sitting on the bike right--she’d leaned so far forward the whole thing looked like it might tilt.

“She's not my girlfriend,” he added. “I’m… I'm married.”  _ Til death ends our union,  _ the vows had said. And death had ended it. But Carth had tried using other women to forget Morgana before, and it never worked. No matter how attractive, or damnably appealing the crazy smuggler was he wouldn’t go down that road again.

“Isn’t your wife dead? It's in the song? Timbo played it for me last night.”

“Yes, but--”

The sharp report of a blaster caught his attention, then the whir of engines as the bikes spurred to life. Polla’s shot forward like a stopper from a bottle--

\--and then slammed hard into the wall as the others roared past.

“Blast!” Carth stood up to to go her, but the Deralian was already scrambling to her feet.

“Wow.” Mission frowned. “Was she lying when she said she'd done this before--like with the guns?”

Xxx

_ Crack. _

Ice splintered Polla’s skull, like she'd hit her head again, the world was strangely muffled and… and... wrong.

The piece of shit bike had lunged forward at an angle and sent her flying into the wall at the course’s first curve--not even two meters past the start. Something was crushing her leg, and then she was rolling back, standing up, trying to ignore the new ringing sound in her ears.

Polla looked up to see a tall man with dark skin and yellow hair, expression on his face a mix of a sneer and a snarl. “Nice bike,” he muttered.  _ “You're  _ the ringer the Beks hired to win this? Or did they get smart and decide it was safer to lose?”

“Three heats, right?” She kept her voice cool as she lifted her visor. “I was just checking the crash-pads, Bucko. Hold your hessi.”

“Tell Gadon he's gonna pay for that stunt. I lost some good people in that raid! And the robes are cracking down hard on all--” The man looked down at her and froze,  that choca skin suddenly turning three shades paler. “Ah, I meant--is… is there anything I can do for you before the other racers return?”

_ Robes.  _ For some reason, Polla shivered. “Mind if I go talk to your slave prizes over there while we wait?”

“Of… course.” The sleemo gangster was staring fixedly at the ground, his voice dropped to a whisper. “Take your time… lady”

“Get fracked,” Polla said absentmindedly, eyes already on her prize.

Xxx

_ She's coming.  _ Bastila felt it, even though it should have been impossible for her to feel anything through the haze of drugs and the neural disruptor they'd put on her brow.  _ She's coming to me. _

The world shifted with the buzz of the woman’s thoughts that she should not be able to hear: a random haze of speculations about the swoop track and engines, angles, promise of some of reward, and Carth Onasi’s… body parts. The chaos made Bastila’s head spin. Her eyes were closed. It was too hard to keep them open with Revan so close, with the space between them narrowed enough that she could feel the ache in her own side where the other woman’s body had just slammed against the wall.

_ Thought Carth was going to kiss me last night. I want him to kiss me--but he’s married. He should have said something before. Therion wouldn’t care. Hell, Therion would’ve already fracked us both by now-- _

“Hey.” The voice was soft, a near whisper. “You're… awake aren’t you?” The accent was flat and open. Deralian, exactly like it should be. “You're… Bastila? Bastila Shan, right?”

_ You should know me already. Between fugues on the  _ Spire _ I introduced you as my aide.  _ The uncertainty threw Bastila off. She opened her eyes--

Xxx

Her eyes were--blue.

_ No, her eyes were green. _

No. Blue. A dark blue, nearly purple. Like bruises, like twilight. Like yellow, like a bright green, blinking back at her with the unabashed curiosity of a clever akk hound. Bright, feral, unconsciously cruel.

The face: pointed chin, the tilted nose. So pale.  _ Her  _ face.

_ No, mine. But it's not. It's not my face-- _

“It’s… you.” The woman made the word sound like Polla was something she'd stepped in. “What are you doing here?”

“How do you know me?” It was a safer question than  _ how do I know you?  _ “You’re that hero Jedi, right?”

“We served on the  _ Endar Spire  _ together.” The woman’s words were laced with scorn. “You suffered a head injury before that, perhaps your memory was affected--”

“Oh, my memory’s just fine.” It gave Polla a weird satisfaction to see this famous Jedi flinch. “Listen. I'm gonna rescue you by winning this race, so sit tight, okay? Are you guys okay? Both of you?”

“There was supposed to be another prisoner.” Bastila Shan was looking at Polla like she should have known that already. “Ensign Pan. We… we must locate him.”

“I gotta get back to the race.” Polla took a step back before the bossy Jedi could tell her to wave a laser sword and conjure up a ship to get them off-planet too. “Listen, just don’t act surprised, okay? No matter what happens. They’re watching you.”

XXX

Green eyes. No, blue. Bastila saw herself reflected in the other woman’s gaze. Hair dishevelled, wearing naught but strips of cloth, the gold band on her head.

_ Shan. This is Bastila Shan. Not nurse. There is no Nurse Shan.  _ The near mindless staccato of the smuggler’s thoughts were familiar, at least.

_ Not nurse. There is no nurse. No Nurse Shan. Why would I think she’s a nurse? _

[“How did she find us?”] Elias interrupted from his neighboring cell. [“She just said she remembers--”]

[“I would remember a son of Ithor if his garden was anyplace near mine,”] the woman was still too close. Now she snapped, her head turning towards Elias. “Don't worry, kid. We’re here for you too.”

“We...” Bastila had to regain control.  _ She knows Ithorian. Of course, she does.  _ “Who is we, Scout Organa?”

“Captain Onasi’s over there.” The woman shrugged, her eyes glancing sideways in an exaggerated motion several times that Bastila finally realized was meant to be followed.

She looked up. The viewing stands were oddly empty, but there was a broad-shouldered man with hair the color of Carth’s, strangely sitting next to a Twi’lek and a Wookiee, although the surrounding seats were empty.

_ Finally some good news!  _ “Carth is very capable,” she managed blandly.

“Yeah, but he's married. Stay here, okay? He’s gonna get you free while I distract the crowd.” The woman’s head turned. “Swoops are coming back--I’m gonna win the next heat.”

The rest of her words were lost in the roar of dust and engines as the racers returned.

XXX

“Enough chatting with the merch!” The Vulkar announcer barrelled over: a fat Human, accompanied by two Gamorreans for muscle. Behind, his boss that Brejik guy stood back, arms folded, glaring at them both. “You running the next heat or not, Organa?”

“Of course.” Polla hadn’t even seen the racers come in, but there they were. There had been five bikes before--now they were down to three. The Mandalorian kid she’d noticed before was still there. She threw him a wave, wondering if he recognized her from when they’d picked her ass off the rakghoul ground and brought her to the Upper City. “Give me a sec, okay?”

The fat Human took a step back. “Of course, my lady. Take… take whatever time you--”

“Nice of you to be so accommodating.”  _ Something’s wrong.  _ Polla glanced at the ceiling, smiling to mask her unease. “Good thing you haven’t damaged this Jedi merch I’m about to win--”

XXX

“I have the fastest time,” Riek bragged to Canderous, as if he hadn’t been watching. “If I win the Jedi slaves, I can make them  _ Mando’ade  _ slaves and adopt the woman into Wies. If she will have me as a husband, we will gain her strength and skill just like the Fett Mandalore of Lin did, when he married the woman from Ossus--”

“You’re getting in front of your jets, dikut’la.” Canderous glanced over at the prisoners too. One of the other racers--the one who had crashed at the beginning, as opposed to the two who had to be scraped off the wall mid-course--was talking animatedly to the two Jedi. She had a pleasing shape from behind and he had to admire that, even if she was now holding up the race. “The Jedi don’t honor adoptions like we do. You win the race, you set them free.” He shrugged. “If the Pubs do come in with their invasion, they’ll remember. Maybe hire us on--” his voice broke off as he saw the profile of the racer. “Manda’lor’s Balls. That’s the bint from the Underlevels! The crazy one.”

“Yes.” Riek nodded. “The Deralian who dueled Deadeye Duncan. She drives a swoop as well as she shoots.”

They both chuckled.

XXX

“That schutta racing swoops for the Hidden Beks is Darth Sheris Darkstar,” hissed Brejik into his comm. “I told you already! Give her whatever she wants and maybe the robes will lay off.”

Yusid understood that already, swinging his head back and tapping the comm-link attached to his skull, but the Vulkar’s new second-in-command, the Gamorrean Snig, seemed to be having trouble with the concept.

[“Tell the bitch to get back to race,”] he grunted at the Human next to him. Brejik could hear plain as day. [“Or forfeit.”]

“Hey! I’m going!” The woman turned to him, glaring with a heat Brejik fancied he could almost feel from here. [“Low-tusked dung-sniffing, runt of your mother’s sack--”]

Snig snarled in outrage and Brejik winced, expecting to see lightning--or a whole nest of other robes descending--but instead, all he heard was a sultry laugh.

“We good?” the Sith robe added, shrugging. She tapped her visor back down, and sauntered, walking backward, toward the bikes.

“Keep an eye on her,” muttered Brejik to Yusid. “If she guts Snig, you’re the next in line for his job.”

The fat man nodded.

Xxx

[“You missed a good heat,”] the Mandalorian kid told Polla. [“Was there something wrong with your bike?”]

“No.” Polla smiled at him to belie her unease. “It cold in here? Or just me?” She turned her head toward the half-empty stands and gave Flyboy a thumbs up to signal it was time to start rocking the status quo. With a little luck, she’d win the heat with enough of a margin to wipe out a challenge. But just in case..... “Uh… hey--just in case... if you win this thing… think we could buy Bastila Shan off you? And that Ithorian kid?”

Belatedly, she remembered the fate of their credits--blown to pieces in a rancor pit.  _ We’ll have to get more. But that’s only assuming I don’t win this. Stupid bike is fast. Now that I know that, I can adjust the timing-- _

The kid had a sweet smile. Little on the young side, but he’d be a heartbreaker, Polla thought. Someday pretty soon. “I… uh, I was going to set them free. Ordo says they might hire us.”

“That works,” she allowed. “Uh, me too. I mean. I was gonna set them free too.”

“For the revolution,” the kid as if he was reminding her. “When are the Republic forces coming?”

“How should I know?” It was freezing in this jumpsuit the Beks had given her. Thing was supposed to be shock-resistant but it sure wasn't warm. And…

Polla glanced uneasily at the ceiling.  _ Something’s wrong. Something’s coming…. _

Xxx

“Marla? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Jopheena leaned over Marla’s shoulder without asking, instead of going to her assigned chair in their Council chambers. Marla could even feel the Force  _ flex  _ as the Human recognized what she was seeing. “Oh! That's--”

Marla waved her to be seated again, feeling the impatience of age, the utter folly of so many plans. But if something could still be salvaged from this wreckage--

_ Hope,  _ she thought.  _ Hope is fleeting, but never vanquished entirely. _

“The Genoharadan sent Master Vrook a live broadcast image,” Marla announced to the Council at large, ignoring Master Vrook himself, who was sulking right next to her. “Just a few stills, but as you can all see--” she moved her hand to send them to the central viewer inset in their table. “There is Bastila Shan. The Padawan in the cage next to her is Elias T’chong, originally from our enclave on Byss.”

“Bastila’s alive?” Master Zez-Kai sounded astonished. And next to him, Vrook glowered.

“And not alone.” The next image in sequence bore a time stamp from only moments ago. The woman had a helmet covering her skull and was strangely dressed in some kind of utility garment, but she remained unmistakable. Face in profile, speaking to Bastila, who was caged.

The Redeemed Revan appeared free--and unharmed. She was also, Marla noted, (contrary to all reports she had read), not frothing at the mouth or screaming like a madwoman. Indeed, she appeared capable, with the grace she had always borne.

“My agent sent the image, but I’m not sure,” Vrook muttered. “It could easily be Sheris Loran.”

“It makes more sense that Bastila and Revan both live than merely one of them,” Master C’tok argued. “I told you the nature of their bond.”

“Well, then Bastila’s alive. And on Taris.” Stubborn Vrook refused to name his niece. “We need to get her out.”

“I can speak with Admiral Dodonna,” Jopheena offered. “She has a contact among the Sith, close to Malak.”

“Do you have a name for this contact?” Marla asked, meeting Master Klee’s steady gaze across the table. It would be useful to know.

“I do not.” Jopheena raised an eyebrow. “Forn doesn't have a name for _ mine,  _ either.”

“But yours is not on Taris,” C’tok clucked.  _ “  _ Correct?”

“As far as I know.” The old Human woman nodded. “But they tell me they exist. Who am I to question?”

“This is no time for your nonsense, Jopheena,” Atris’s hologram snapped.

“We could send a small Jedi task force to retrieve them--” Kavar suggested.

Zhar’s holographic image slowly shook his head, lekku knotted together. “And risk losing more of our people?”

“D’Reev has released another list of casualties from the  _ Spire  _ as well  _ ,”  _ Vrook muttered, half under his breath.

Zhar lifted a brow ridge. “Do you still have access to the- nurs-”

“No,” Vrook snapped. “The Senator and I haven’t been on speaking terms for quite some time.”

“Those padawans were the true innocents--and there are still several unaccounted for. If you wish to devote your attention to saving our own, save them!” Master Zez-Kai was so impassioned that Marla thought he might be back on the spice.

Vrook’s eyes narrowed. “Can she use the Force or not?” His mouth twitched, staring at the frozen still. “Your reports said the mindwipe worked all too well, C’tok.”

“As intended,” Master Kae’s hologram was blurred, speaking from the distance she’d traveled. Her words were accompanied by a slight lag. “Difficult to tell from a holo-image seen through a comm-projector, but the personality we used was Force-blind. A perfect null by design.”

“Of course. The simple Deralian smuggler.” Vrook stood up, with uncharacteristic speed. “And while we Master Jedi sit and debate, a simple Deralian smuggler  _ may  _ have already rescued Bastila Shan. Or died. Either way, it’s done.”

“I can assign the closest knight--” Kavar began.

_ “She  _ took our knights!” The Hothan Jedi’s face was practically purple. His voice coiled with rage. “Revan took all that we rebuilt after Kun and shattered it. And you all… still talk like we can save her. As if saving  _ her  _ was a worthy cause.” Master Vrook exhaled, walking towards the door. “I’m returning to Dantooine. I wash my hands of this.”

Marla understood why Vrook made it personal, but it was foolish of him. Not that she would intervene--

“She might need you,” Jopheena said softly. But Vrook was already gone.

Xxx

_ Revan Starfire straddled the swoop bike awkwardly, knees bent too close to her thighs for any real control. You wouldn't know that to hear her voice through. She sounded as cool as ferracrystral. _

**_"I got this, Flyboy. Relax. I was tweener champion back on Deralia? I could fly this course blind if I had to, it's nothing compared to Janstak's Canyon loop back home."_ **

**_"Isn't that the place where you said you crashed?"_** _The pilot laughed nervously._ ** _"I think we need a back-up plan."_**

**_"You worry too much. I mean, it's sort of cute."_ **

**_"You're calling me cute?"_ **

**_"For a Gamorrean, sure."_ **

**_"Have you seen a lot of Gamorreans?"_ **

**_"I ran spice for the Exchange. What do you think?"_ **

_ "This is real footage?" Polla nudged Seiran again. A part of her probably already knew at that point, but she was trying desperately to come up with an alternative explanation. --Memory Chapter 47 _

_ XXX _

_ A/N Chapter Title: Laura Marling, My Manic and I. _

Thanks a quadrillion, as always, ether--all typos have been added since, when I rewrote giant chunks and made simple four paragraph sections into really long ones. 

This is the cleaner copy, fixed a few inconsistencies too. 

There’s a mystery around the word that Polla can’t hear. If it isn’t clear, have patience, more is coming. Actually, another entire chapter--quite soon, which should resolve a lot of the cliffhangers--althought not that one..

M____, she said.

  
  
  



	10. Lend Me Your Eyes

XXX

_The docking clamps aligned, the Force sealing them and locking their ship to the small station orbiting another demon moon._

_Even from here, Davad could feel Yavin's dark energy-and even from orbit he knew that its strength was intangible as clouds. No sustenance there. No, what awaited him lay on the station itself: here, the Emperor's dark heart: a sweet morsel, the taste of more to come._

Because of you, Lord Revan.

_His gratitude was primal: loyalty that went beyond sense. The part of him still a man (a rapidly decreasing fraction of a self, lessened with every life he took) despised the eager kath he was becoming, trailing after his master in search of a treat._

_\--Memory, Chapter 47_

_XXX_

**Oblivion Chapter 10 / Lend Me Your Eyes**

_XXX_

Davad’s master was powerful. When she commanded him, her voice drowned out everything else--the screams of the dying, the scents of fear, even his own footfalls in the narrow, stinking corridor.

**_You WILL aid her escape from this world. You WILL keep her from Malak--her and Shan both--_ **

_Yes, yes, old woman! Stop hounding me!_ Davad Arkan deactivated his blade because all the hapless innocents in the corridor in front of him had died to it already. He stepped over their corpses and spiraled open the door to the emergency stairs, pulling up a composite blueprint of the next level as he walked on his comm display.

Its hologram lines bobbed in front of him, like a ghost of memory. In truth, Davad barely needed the map. This section of the Taris Lower City was very familiar. For they had been in these halls before. All six members of the Jedi Mercy Corps on their first brave mission to Taris had walked here once….

XXX

_“Kind of quiet, huh? Maybe we’ve frightened the Mandalorians away.” Xaset had been hanging out with Vik too much. She was trying to match the Twi’lek’s cool bravado, but the effort sat ill on her--like a false mask. Her real mask--gray cloth like they all wore--was pushed up on her head._

_“Put your visor back down!” Malak turned in the corridor to snap at her, his own voice muffled through fabric--as if a mask could make someone of Malak’s bulk anonymous. As if any of them were anonymous here, dressed in Jedi beige--the six of them--tramping through the Lower City slums in Jedi robes, on patrol to curtail the Mandalorian threat._

Or to draw the Mandalorians out, _Davad had thought. Even then, back when he knew nothing._

_“It’s boiling.” Xaset was from Byss and disliked the swelter of these tunnels. “I’m not wearing that ugly thing. Who’s going to care?”_

_“We all agreed to wear them,” Malak said. The tunnel was wide enough for three abreast, and he was the center, with Revan to his left and Xaset on his right. Vik, Beya, and Davad brought up the rear. Later, their six would become seven, with the addition of Nicosia Ree--but that was later. Then eight, then twenty--as the trickle became a flood. “Masks are a symbol. To make us all equals.”_

_“Xaset has a point, through.” Revan pushed up her own mask. She stopped walking--and they all stopped with her--even then, following_ her _lead and not_ Malak’s _. “Mal doesn’t want to be recognized. But these people we’re helping… they need to see faces, sometimes. They need to know that we’re just like them.”_

_Beya laughed. “Like them?”_

_“Like a pack of xenophobes who keep non-Humans segregated in the Lower City?” Vik interrupted. “_ Are _we just like them? Really?”_

_“Of course not!” Without her mask, Davad noticed shadows under Revan’s eyes that had not been there before. In this light, her green eyes washed out, turning almost gray. “But we can’t address the inequity on this planet until we deal with the Mando’ade invasion. If we can curtail the outside threat, we can earn their trust, get them to follow--”_

“Follow?” _Vik’s lekku wrapped around his neck. “No. We’re Jedi. We’re not here to collect followers.”_

_“That’s not what I--” Revan turned to Malak, even if it was his plan that had them in this mess in the first place. “Explain it again to them, Mal.”_

_“Without the masks?” Malak still wore his, stubbornly, his voice muffled behind the cheap cloth. “Your strategy beat the Fett’s assault back in the Upper City, Rev._ You _explain it.”_

_“But you--” There was a pause as their eyes locked. Davad hated the seething envy in his gut, familiar from years of experience, as he watched the two of them reach some secret, voiceless accord._

It should be me, _he thought. Not for the first time._ It should be me, hearing your counsel, Revan--not him.

 _“I do have a plan,” Revan admitted then, looking at them all. “The Fett only sent ground forces because he wants his warriors blooded in sand--that means a fight on the ground. The Republic won’t give an independent world like Taris air support--and the Mando’ade_ know _that. That’s why there are no warbirds in orbit here--they’re not trying to take this world--they just want to fight for it. They just want_ us _to fight for it.”_

_“No warbirds that we can detect,” Xaset said acidly. “You know they can cloak.”_

_“And that can't be the only reason,” Beya added. “They’re after something. That team of scientists--they said as much--”_

_“Maybe,” Malak said. “But Revan’s still correct. They want a ground fight.”_

_“We can detect cloaked ships too--_ if _we convince the Fleet to let us help them. But it all starts here on the ground.” Revan’s voice was usually so calm, but at times like this, Davad saw the fire in her, the sweet conviction. “Cassus Fett wants us to challenge his warriors. We need to do it--and we need to win.”_

_“And meanwhile, we’re also saving the xenophobes?” Vik snapped._

_“Isn't that just giving the Fett what he wants?” Xaset folded her arms stubbornly. “Why would we give the Mandalorians what they want?”_

_“These people are kissra sheep. We can’t save them from their own folly.” Davad had noted the similarities to Onderon before, and moved on._ The inequity on this planet exists because some of these sentients prefer it.

 _“Tarisians need to believe in a cause,” Revan insisted quietly. “They need to believe in_ us. _Sometimes, that means we need to be masked--other times, we need to show them we’re sentients too--and not all Human ones.” Her eyes rested on Vik. “Just like them.”_

 _“But we’re not like them.”_ Obviously. _Davad thought she should not gloss over that point. “Are we?”_

 _“No. Of course we’re not.” Revan took a breath and ran a freckled hand through her braids, tucking them back under the cloth she used to hide her hair. Her eyes turned to him then, level and clean. “But we need to make a convincing case to get them to help us fight. And_ we _need them to help us fight. We need numbers. They need to save their world.”_

And then what? _“The Mandalorians have already gone to ground. They ran when we took back the Upper City.” Davad shrugged at Xaset, in a doomed attempt to make Rev jealous. Xaset smiled back, ducking her head. She was a pretty girl, but next to Revan her beauty paled. “That proves they’re cowards. This incursion will be done in another week.”_

_“They’re not cowards,” Vik muttered. “But… they might be crazy.”_

_“We might be crazy too,” Beya twisted her top knot. “After another week of this. Did you hear that noise? Was it a rakghoul?” Her hand was white-knuckled on her saber. “You all realize there’s no cure to that plague? One scratch--and that’s it.”_

_“You spent too much time with that scientist,” Davad informed her. “She's filled your head with tales. The Under City. A promised land. Some kind of cure to the rakghoul infection--”_

_“Maybe that's what they're after,” Beya said. “It makes more sense than Rev’s 'oh, they just want the glory,’ idea.”_

_“That's because you don't know the Mando’ade.” Revan’s voice sharpened. “Mal and I do.”_

_“What my--what Revan means is, we need to win,” Malak added. “And we need to do it together. Anonymously, so this victory isn't about glory at all. Theirs--or ours.”_

_“This fight is about reducing the numbers of their warriors,” Revan added. “In the end it's that simple. We pick them off. One-by-one. Or in groups, if we can. Find their camps. Destroy them--”_

_“Kill?” Vik had been the hardest won to the cause. Xaset had objected more vocally, but Davad sometimes wondered if the Twi’lek was_ truly _committed to Revan and their battle. “Protocol says we take prisoners whenever possible--”_

_“Well, it's not possible. Not with them.” Revan's mouth set in a grim line. “Not here. Not now.”_

_“Maybe you should just make them all infected with the rakghoul plague,” Beya drawled._

_“Don't give her any ideas,” Malak said, as if it was a joke. At the time it had seemed a joke--although later in the conflict they had done precisely that--_

XXX

_We were all naive. The follies of youth. The pride of it._

**_You will aid her escape from this world!_ **

“No longer want me to bring her to you, Master?”

 **_She will come to me._ ** The old woman sounded quite certain. **_Unless she dies in this place. With you._ **

“That rather sounds like a threat.”

Was it his imagination, or had he caught Revan’s scent? Davad sniffed the air thoughtfully again. His boots clattered on the stairs.

“Beya?” He tapped his commlink again, voicing it to call her, but she refused to pick up.

 _Hard to delay dear old Mal if you won’t answer my calls, Beya._ Could Davad still trust _her_ to keep Malak away from Revan?

Malak wasn’t at the coordinates Beya had sent him--not yet--but Revan had to be--or close.

Davad knew Malak wasn't because he could _feel_ the Dark Lord’s presence somewhere above him now--probably descending with all speed to claim his prize. But dear Rev--or her shell--

He sniffed the air again, frowning.

 _There._ The stairs below and to his three. A faint wisp of scent. But also another--

_Bandon. He’s somewhere below me._

_If he finds her first--_

**_He must not find her first!_ **

“Finally, master. We agree on something!”

Davad glanced up again and then back down, summoning the Force to his will to track the arrogant fool who no doubt sought to claim Revan as a prize himself….

_XXX_

_This_ time, Polla was taking no chances. She’d tested the steering yoke at least ten times while the other racers were getting ready for the next go.

“What happened to you in the first heat?” That Mandalorian kid leaned over his bike, face a perfectly blank ovoid under his crash helmet, but there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice.

“Bike has quite a kick,” Polla told him, watching the others line up for the second run. “Wasn’t prepared. But this time, watch out.” She felt her own lips curve in a smile under her visor as she leaned over the handles, placing her right foot just above the accelerator. “Only need one record time to win, right?”

“I was only a tenth off--and I know the track.” He sounded too smug by half, and probably was flirting with her.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Nineteen.” He frowned. “In Taris years.”

“Are you married?”

“What?” Under the helm his voice kind of squeaked. “Of course not! No!”

“Calm down, I was just asking.” He was still pretty young, and he didn’t make her feel like Flyboy did, but… not married. That was a plus. Her eyes scanned the crowd automatically for the married Republic pilot, but all she saw was Mission and the Wookiee.

_Oh, right. He’s getting Shan loose. He should just wait for me to win the race--_

_Stay away! Get back in your own mind!_

“What?” Polla looked at Riek. “What’d you say about my mind?”

“I am sorry,” Riek said formally. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Right.” Polla had a bad feeling suddenly, like a surge of fear. “Nerves. I-I’m fine.” _I’m losing it. Stay away from--who? I'm losing it and this bike is a piece of crap. Come on now, charge up that accelerator--oh, frack--so damn slow--what’s wrong--_

The racing lights in front of them shifted to yellow and she turned her head back toward the starting line.

 _Be quiet,_ Polla told herself. _You must calm yourself--you must remain calm--_

_XXX_

“Padawan Shan?” the voice said from somewhere outside of her cell. “Bastila?”

Revan’s steady drone of mental nonsense had become so pervasive that it took Bastila a moment to realize that what she heard now was a _man’s_ voice--and not the woman she'd become bonded to.

Was the voice Bandon? Arkan? Maybe even Darth Malak himself. Taunting her? Was this some kind of trap?

“Are you okay?” the voice asked with mock concern.

 _Get out of my mind,_ Bastila thought fiercely. _Stay away from me!_

“Bastila!” The voice repeated, louder this time, almost as if someone was actually there.

 _I am losing myself._ The fear resurfaced. Without Masters Trask and Lavrees to help, Revan’s confused thoughts threatened to swamp hers. _Stay away! Get back in your own mind!_

The Deralian’s inane chatter continued. _Stay away from--who? I'm losing it and this bike is a piece of crap. Come on now, charge up that accelerator--oh, frack--so damn slow--what’s wrong--_

 _Be quiet,_ Bastila thought, panicking as she remembered the number of times she’d seen the woman reduced to a catatonic fugue aboard the _Spire--_ and, worse, how debilitating the effects had been upon her own concentration. _You must_ _calm yourself--you must remain calm--_

_Right. Calm. Red eyes are bad. I’m free. I have to knock this thing into the turn hard at the start. I can't frack it up again, this is embarrassing--_

“Uh, kid--I’m sorry, Padawan Elias. You. Hey. Is she all right?”

[“What?”] Somewhere back in the world, Elias’s whistle sounded panicked. [“Who is here? There is someone here! Not visible to my eyestalks!”]

_Calm yourself! It’s just a race. Keep your hands on the accelerator--_

_We’re off--why the hell would I be calm--?_ There was the roar of exhaust as the fragile swoop bikes sped away--and with them--the Deralian smuggler. _Damnit!_ Sharp, burning pain as the woman’s leg brushed too close to the exhaust pipe. The bike shook--

_Too fast. Gonna crash--no. I will not die like this._

_You won’t die like this,_ Bastila reassured her. _Remain calm. You must remain calm--_

[“Who’s there?”] Elias turned his neck sharply. [“Padawan Shan! Someone is here!”]  

 _What?_ “What?” Bastila blinked, suddenly back entirely in her own mind, the Force restraints heavy on her brow, the electrical field of her portable cell so cold against her hands that it burned.

With a yelp, she drew them back.

“You okay, sister?” the voice whispered.

That was when Bastila realized the male voice wasn’t in her mind at all. The air in front of her was blurred in a loosely man-shaped shape and it was talking to her.

“Hello?” She blinked foolishly at it.

“Shhhh. It’s me,” the man-shaped blur whispered. “Didn’t Polla tell you the plan? I’m Captain Onasi. We’re here to rescue you.”

 _Thank the Force!_ Bastila felt her knees weaken with relief. “She said… something, but not… clearly enough. If you can release the cage mechanism and the bonds on my hands, Captain, then Elias and I can manage the rest.”

“Of course!” The blur nodded at her.

 _Watch out for that fracking--_ the sound of an explosion came echoing down the corridor from the track, followed by the crowd cheering. _Too fracking close--I--fracking pylons!_ _There’s the accelerator pad--that Mandie is on my ass--_

“Are there others with you?” Bastila added, hoping very much so. “Some of the masters--or one of the knights--?”

“Just you two, I’m afraid. And me and Polla.” The man-shaped blur sounded apologetic. “We're working with some of the locals.”

“Of course.” _Did she kill the others? No, of course not. I'm being foolish. She's still… the Masters said the persona was stable enough for fieldwork--and… she appears… confident, at least._

_I’m going to fracking die--why is this bike such a piece of fracking osik--_

_Remain calm,_ Bastila thought faintly. _Please._

“I can try to short the field to your cell--” The captain did something and the faint blue glow between Bastila and the world sparked, then blazed back to life. Captain Onasi gave a muffled curse. “Damn. Mission thought she knew the frequencies. Give me a sec--”

The force field hummed and sputtered--uneven now, but no less of a barrier. “You will need to hurry,” Bastila told the man. “Your smuggler friend will not hold their attention for long.”

The man-shaped blur laughed. “You’d be surprised--or… or maybe not. Aren’t you the one who hired her?”

The lie came easily, as if all the times she'd rehearsed it had been worthwhile. “Master Trask was in charge of the mission.”

“Oh, well--” There was a clicking noise and then the field shorted out. Warm hands closed on her bound wrists, and the man did something to the binder containing her hands.

The moment she was free Bastila pulled the band on her forehead off, feeling the mag-locks on her skin detach with a sickening pop. The Force came back, doubled and shrieking, _a phantom wind whipping through her hair, the swoop’s accelerator warm between her legs--_

Bastila just stood blinking. _She was crouched atop a bike, propelling herself forward--a hard, fierce joy bright in her breast like nothing she had ever felt before--_

“Master Shan?” the man-shaped blur before her whispered. Close now, breath nearly in her ear. “Are you okay?”

 _I am no master._ Although she had long since become accustomed to the Fleet’s honorific.

“I am unscathed.” Bastila managed to pull herself back to the present with a will born from years of training. “Thank you for rescuing us.” Her own hand twisted, shorting out the electronics to Elias’s cage as well, and knocking the cursed disruptor from his head. It came off more easily than her own, not being fashioned for an Ithorian skull.

The thing that had imprisoned her lay at her feet and Bastila wanted nothing more than to crush it, but wisdom prevailed.

 _You might need to cut her off from the Force later._ The thought came, analytical and automatic, as Bastila bent over to pick up the Force-blocking diadem, noting that the attention of nearly everyone around them seemed still focused on the screen and the race--

 _Strange that a swoop gang would possess such devices._ But that was inconsequential. Now that they were free.

Xxx

The bike was mushy, still steering like a ronto, and Polla had to focus hard, trying to keep it from tipping again. Ahead was a row of blinking acceleration pads. She leaned forward, keeping her eyes focused on the track, trying to ignore that weird blur that kept insisting she was somewhere else--that Carth was there, somehow, just in front of her--

_I’m losing it. I’m cracking up. It must be that head injury. Right. I’ll win this race and then I’ll get it checked out--_

Her hands tightened on the bike’s handles, but for a second, they didn’t look like her hands at all.

Xxx

Bastila’s hand fumbled for a pocket, but she wasn't wearing her robes and what she was wearing was--inadequate. Barely more than a few strips of cloth.

“Are you… you look… cold.” Something heavy and smooth nudged her right hand, the one not holding the diadem. Her invisible captain again. “It's my coat. Here. Might want to put it on--”

“Elias would be colder than I. This planet’s temperatures are outside of the normal parameters for Ithorian blood.” Bastila’s fingers closed on the garment anyway, and as she stepped toward her fellow padawan the garment fell outside of the captain’s stealth field’s range, resolving itself into a battered, orange, banthahide jacket. She passed the coat to the Ithorian and shoved the Force-blocking crown into the chain around her waist that passed for a belt.

“Okay.” Captain Onasi’s blurred shape stepped back. “I-I picked up an extra blaster, if you want--”

“No need, Captain. But we must move into a defensive position before these gang members notice our escape.” She herself had already noted that several carried serviceable vibro-swords. “I will find my own weapon, unless Elias would prefer a ranged option--”

[“Bastila--”] Elias’s voice made Bastila look up. There was true fear in his tone, enough that she froze, even before she saw the man advancing upon them.

“Captain,” she whispered. “Move away now. Quickly.”

Next to her, Elias gave a groan. Along the entrance to the stands stood a pale green Twi’lek, his skin mottled with the depravity of the dark, his eyes as yellow as charnel pits from hell--

[“Get back now, Captain!”] Elias added. [“That Sith is one of Malak’s hand-picked servants!”]

“I’m sorry, I don’t--I didn’t get all of that--” Captain Onasi’s voice halted and then the blur turned, as he saw the Sith’s approach.

Thankfully the captain was smart enough to retreat because Bastila watched the blur back into the shadows meters away near the finish line.

“Vikor Tio.” Bastila heard her voice shake and she willed herself not to show fear, not even to wonder what this fallen man knew--or what he might soon discover. _All could be lost--_

_No! I'm not losing this race!_

The world dipped dangerously again, and for a moment, Bastila was watching the terrain ahead whip by, her leg scraping against a wall. _This bike steers like a ronto I’m going to die. I can’t die like this---_

 _Don’t,_ Bastila thought faintly. _Please don’t die, Polla Organa._

_Nice of you to care, Voice. I’m losing it. I’m cracking up--_

The swoop bike hit another accelerator pad and her neck slammed back as they improbably rounded another bend along the industrial catwalk of the course--

“Padawan Shan,” said the fallen Jedi, his voice yanking Bastila back to her own body. “I'm pleased to see you looking so... well. But you seem cold. Brejik?” His voice sharpened and the gang leader turned away from the boards to face them, eyes widening as he realized his prisoners were free--and who else was there. “Brejik? Be a good sport and give this woman your cloak.” Without waiting for a response, Vik’s fingers tightened and the garment flew off the blonde man’s back and into his hands.

“I’m… I’m fine,” Bastila said warily. Poor Elias looked almost blue, even underneath the captain’s jacket, but she had been trained for this.

“No, I insist,” the former Jedi knight insisted. His lips drew back from pointed teeth as he walked slowly towards her. “Lord Malak would be most upset if you caught a chill.”

_XXX_

_Get distance. Shoot ‘em in the back. Sith can jump farther than you can run so you’ll only get one shot. Make it count--_

Carth was a combat pilot. He'd seen Sith in the skies--or suspected he had, dodging dogfights with pilots who never missed--and there'd been that kid Pando on that groundside crash--but he'd never gone toe to toe with a dark Jedi, and if he could help it, now wasn't the time to start.

So, he remembered his training as best he could and ran clear, backing up against the finish line of the race before pulling his blaster to try and get the best shot. The Vulkars to the right of him had finally caught on to their prizes escaping, but the sight of that black-robed Twi’lek seemed to have them frozen in terror.

_It won't help Bastila if he kills you. You won’t help Bastila if he kills her._

But the Twi’lek Sith wasn’t attacking anyone. Because he was outnumbered? Overconfident?

 _They can deflect bolts, you need to get a good shot at his back…_ Carth raised his pistol to take the shot--just as the man turned, pacing back with that Force-spawned quickness, his lightsaber blazing red as he raised his hand--

The red blade spun forward so fast that if Carth hadn’t ducked he would have been dead. As it was, he could have kissed the floor--if he hadn’t been busy rolling closer to the asshole, trying to get to the stack of crates from the swoop set-up between him and the man. That put the Vulkars at his back, but he had to hope they still hadn’t spotted him--

“Tell your stealthed savior not to shoot at me again,” the Twi’lek called to Bastila. _“If_ you value him.” 

The Vulkars were cowering behind their announcer’s booth near the mechanic’s cage now. The man dressed like their leader, (wearing the most jewelry), raised his hand in a hesitant wave to the Twi’lek.

_Wait. They're working with him? If they're working with him then Polla’s in trouble! Then this whole thing’s a set-up, some kind of trap--_

Bastila frowned, obviously in terror, backing away as the Twi’lek Sith advanced again, with some kind of cloth held in his hand. Bastila said something to the Ithorian kid, but whatever it was was lost in the sound of the approaching bikes on the track as they came for another sweep around the track.

_Polla’s here!_

Hard to look in two directions at once--and the smuggler, maddening as she was, wasn’t Carth’s primary objective. Only time to catch a glimpse of her--weaving way too much to be stable on her swoop before the racers shot by them and back onto the loop of the track. Some in the crowd cheered, but he noted others making a hasty retreat to the exits. Much as he wished otherwise, that little blue Twi’lek and her Wookiee pal weren’t among the smart ones leaving. In fact, Mission Vao was waving wildly at from the stands--completely oblivious to the Mandalorian hulk in the seat behind her--and the Sith Lord walking around down here who had nearly taken Carth’s head off.

_Poor kid. This is going to get ugly fast._

Carth leveled his gun slowly, still stealthed (for all the good it did against a Sith), moving back closer to Bastila.

_Xxx_

The race was on, but right now, Canderous thought the real floorshow was happening on the grounds below. “Check it out,” he motioned to the Twi’lek kid and the Wookiee in the seats in front of him, leaning forward to chat. “See that robe over there? Race is gonna get lively.”

The denizens of Taris had learned how to handle occupation. When the robes showed up, everyone stepped back. Funny to see that arrogant Brejik cowering behind the stands with his Gamorrean buddies--and all because of a skinny Twi’lek who looked like he weighed maybe sixty kilos soaked.

The robe pushed the hood of his robes down and walked slowly, very slowly, to Shan’s unlocked cage, his headtails limp and trailing down his back. Had he unlocked the cage for her? Canderous remembered the time that dar’manda Starkiller had challenged Lord Vikor Tio--only to slip on the floor a millisecond after, losing his dignity along with whatever honor of Clan Lin he hadn’t jettisoned long ago, when he’d fled the Lin moon like the coward he was.

Canderous felt himself begin to grin. Far as Sith went, Tio was one of the better ones.

“Funny,” he pointed out to the kid and the Wookiee. “You see? Robe’s not cutting em up or frying. Looks like he's just talking.” From this angle, the dar’jett didn’t even look like much of a foe. He was skinny, and not very tall. He held out a piece of black cloth to Shan--some kind of covering--too thin to be effective armor. The famous Jedi took a step backwards instead of taking it, shaking her head. The Twi’lek shrugged and dropped it on the floor.

Canderous had seen a Sullustan Jedi once take down three full crusaders. She had been remarkable--until she hit the Ordo mines. Mines blew up the ‘jett just like anyone else. And, of course, he’d seen the masked Revan Starfire fight the Fett Mandalore--but that memory was less pleasing for its conclusion.

_I will remember Dxun. That Sullustan and her double blades. Now, that was a fight for the ages._

“It’s _not_ funny.” The Twi’lek kid was one he’d seen at Javyar’s before. She wiped her eyes, snuffling from the refuge of the giant hairball who had adopted her or something. The Wookiee added his own commentary in his barbarous growls, baring his teeth at Canderous and keening, low in his throat. “Polla needs to win this quick. Something bad is coming.”

“You mean that guy? Darth Tio?” Canderous scoffed. “You ain’t a Jedi. Stay low and I don’t think you need to worry about Tio. But if he starts cutting, get behind me.” He hefted the repeater he’d brought along to show her. “Disruptor beam’s hard for ‘em to deflect.”

“Was I talking to you, sleemo?” The kid’s headtails twisted an insult too fast for him to catch and the carpet next to her bellowed again, sounding like a dewback in season. “Mind your own lekku-wax!”

_XXX_

“What do you want with us?” Bastila demanded of Vikor Tio. Without the disruptor band, the sense of _wrongness_ around them was near-deafening, echoed and magnified in time with a Deralian smuggler’s jumbled thoughts.

_It's cold. Why am I so cold? Gotta get this lap in gear--that last one was too fracking close--_

_Stay calm,_ Bastila begged her. _No matter what happens. Please--_

 _Shut the frack up?_ The bike wavered dangerously.

“Can you feel that, Shan?” the fallen Twi’lek smiled, but he made no move to advance--or try to give her clothing again. “The darkness? Do you know what it is?”

The coming dark was just one more scream on this cursed planet to Bastila, another shadow, half-drowned-out by the Deralian smuggler's running commentary. But, as Bastila thought that, her magnitude of unease seemed to increase, like pressure on a sea-bed, bearing down from above, like a rising tide of fear--

“Yes,” she admitted. “I believe so.”

Vikor Tio smiled grimly. “That’s our Lord Malak. He's coming for you.”

 _I will not be taken--_ the jolt of anger was startling, ricocheting through the bond, until Bastila realized it was coming just as much from the smuggler as her own mind. _I will not lose this race--_

But Vikor Tio just stood there, staring at her. “That’s Lord Malak,” he repeated. “You are my prisoner. I am holding you here for him... _.”_ He flipped his saber in a neat flourish--a form more style than substance. “You are my prisoners.” He glanced at the screen showing the race. “All of you.” He took a step forward, waving the saber in a way that startled Bastila, for its sloppiness. “There is nowhere to run.” His eyes darted to the exit next to the swoop tracks to their left, and then fixed back on her face. “Nowhere… to... run.”  

If Bastila had her own weapon she could have attacked him then. The former Knight Tio’s stance was careless. It would have been easy. So easy.

Was it a trap?

[“There’s two of us, and one of you,”] her companion chirped, advancing to her side.

Brave of Elias, and foolhardy. But Bastila could make him even braver. Were she free to use her Battle Meditation in this moment, she could even take Vikor’s saber from him, inspire the Republic pilot and Elias to fight with renewed courage--Bastila could be a beacon in the darkness--bringing hope--

_I hope I can fracking win this race. Why is it so cold?_

_While meditating I would be helpless as a manka kit. Is that what Tio is waiting for?_

Who? _I’m losing it. I’m really fracking losing it here--but I can’t lose. Who knew I’d get a chance to race the Taris open--I have to fracking win this--_

“He is coming,” Vikor repeated, almost theatrically. Why wasn’t he attacking them? “Lord Malak is coming. Can you feel it? The darkness?”

“Yes.” And it was true. Suddenly all Bastila could feel now was Dark: hammering down from all sides, jolted by sparks of emotion spiking through the Force bond that bound her to a mindwiped Deralian smuggler.

XXX

“He is coming,” Vikor deepened his voice, repeating the words for the tenth time, and practically pointing his lightsaber toward the best possible exit while the Vulkars stood frozen like terrified nerfs behind him. If only these two Jedi would go get Revan from that joke of a swoop race and flee already, before Malak showed up with his goons and captured them all.

_It will look awkward if you’re freshly dead at my feet when Malak comes, Shan. I may have promised Forn I wouldn’t kill you, but I don’t have to keep my promises. And you’re better off dead than in his hands._

There was no hero’s medal waiting for Vik Tio on Coru or Ryloth. No matter how this ended. But he would hate to waste his life ending hers--

Combat-honed instinct as well as the Force sent Vik’s blade up in a block as a barrage of blaster bolts hit him at once, a few glancing off his energy shield, the rest parried back with his saber.  

_That cursed stealthed pilot! Again?_

“Call him off!” he hissed at Bastila. “Now!”

“I--” she blinked, like a woman awakening from a long sleep. “What?”

[“Get away from her!”] The Ithorian padawan was weaponless but he sent a tight lash of Force shooting at Vik--strong enough to rock him back on his feet.

 _Fighting back. Good--that looks good… but I need you to run. Now._ “What’s wrong with Shan?” Vik drawled, even as the woman blinked, staring at him as if he wasn’t there at all.

[“Get away from her!!”] The yellowy Ithorian hissed again. Blue light glowed in his hands in a way that Vik suspected came from clandestine practice outside of the Jedi path. Not quite lightning--that took a special kind of futility to manifest. But something closer to it than the stasis he would have been trained in.

Vik took a step back, as instructed. It would be embarrassing if these amateurs actually singed his skin. “Lord Malak is coming,” he repeated. “And you are all my pris--”

A bolt from that Captain Onasi’s pistol hit the energy shield on his left wrist in a near-perfect shot, shorting it out in one blow. _Do chunda!_ Vik ducked another blast of energy from the Ithorian kid, and rolled half behind the row of stacked energy cells the swoop mechanics had set up near the finish line. From behind, he could hear the outraged shouts from the Vulkar crew as the fools twigged and finally joined the fray, trying to shoot the invisible moving target attacking Vik.

[“You were saying, Sith?”] The Ithorian was between him and Shan now, jeer evident in the buzz of his words. Vikor had no orders to keep him alive… except that the boy was helping Shan-- [“Do you always run from your prisoners?”]

Vik’s lekku twitched toward the stands, and he stuck his head up cautiously over the edge of the cell _. Selven. There._ Her white-gold hair gleamed like a beacon in the overlights. Good to her word, his agent was already in place _._

 _Hold,_ he signaled with his t’chun, raising it above the crates, only to have it almost shot off by another volley from Captain Onasi. _Kunta!_ Vik gathered the Force around him. His hand twirled the dial of his own stealth belt, noting the almost comical confusion in the Ithorian’s head-twist, as Vik vanished from sight--

[“The Sith must have a stealth belt too!”] the padawan called out.

Vik’s Force leap took him over the Jedi heads to the stands, where he landed in a crouch next to the blonde-braided beauty watching the show.

Selven glanced at him, frowning without surprise beneath her infrared goggles. With them on, his stealthed form would be clear as a sunrise on her scope. “Is something wrong?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Were those two unarmed Jedi teenagers getting the best of you?”

Below, the Vulkars now swarmed like an outraged hive, closing in on Bastila and her companions. The sound of blasters echoed in the arena, mixed with screams and shouts as the crowd began to react--

“More like I had a sudden change of plans,” Vik said, gaging the distance from the _other_ Genoharadan agent, who had taken position at the very back of the stand. “Shields up. I _know_ you work with Nord. Tell him to help on your comm. Get rid of the witnesses--but see if you can drive Shan and her crew off. Unharmed. I need them scared and running into that track. Fast.”

 _“All_ of the witnesses?” The beautiful blonde Human nodded her chin at the seats opposite. “That’s one of Nord’s pet Mando’ade over there. Next to the kid and the Wookiee.”

 _The kid--_ with a jolt, Vik recognized her too, next to the former General Ordo. Mission Vao, the Beks’ mascot. A true innocent.

_A shame. But there have been a lot of shames._

“Vulkars first,” Vik muttered, not quite willing to say the obvious. “Leave Shan and Revan alive. And Nord, of course. I don't give a damn about the rest as long as they’re not talking--”

It was a lie that he didn’t give a damn. But Vik had long since learned that giving a damn or not made no difference. Not in his line of work.

“Aren’t you going to help, my lord?” Selven sounded amused. She always did.

“Yes.” He checked his chron, not that it would mean anything. The Force was a more reliable indicator, battering down on them like an incoming typhoon. “You have about five minutes--then you need to go--no matter what it looks like on the floor.” Another thing he didn’t need was his own agents being interrogated by Beya Organa--or Arkan’s Blades--or by Malak himself.

“I’m starting to wonder if you want Shan captured at all,” the blonde said. “I have tranks and an electro-net. We could end this fast.”

“I’m starting to wonder if you think I’m stupid,” he snapped. “Do you think I don’t know Nord reports to the Republic? Or that you’re sleeping with him… and Darth Organa too? Just whose side are you on?”

Selven froze. “I follow my contracts. We do our jobs. You know our guild’s rules--”

“I know I hold _a_ contract,” he hissed. “And it doesn’t say to ask questions. Do your job. For me. Now.” He held Nord’s contract too--through a pass-through blind drop, but no need to go into that. Vik followed the threat with a jolt of Force, just enough to push her back in her seat--a warning.

“Yes, my lord.” Selven’s face was a blank beneath those goggles, but he saw the tell-tale twitch of her cheek as she blinked the commands through her link to Nord, the whitening of her lips. Anger? Fear? Did it matter?

_Just how close is she to Beya?_

_XXX_

_Come on now, veer into the bend--_

The track blurred in front of Polla. Her fingers felt too slick on the bars, her pulse was in her throat, and she was suddenly terrified, surrounded by an overwhelming and near-debilitating fear.

_I hope I can fracking win this race. Why is it so cold?_

_\--while meditating I would be helpless as a manka kit. Is that what Tio is waiting for?_

Who? _I’m losing it. I’m really fracking losing it here--but I can’t lose. Who knew I’d get a chance to race the Taris open--I have to fracking win this--_

Her breath felt thick in her chest. _Focus. Calm. There is only this--_

The Mandalorian kid’s speeder was far in the distance of the straightaway. Polla tried to open the throttle more, to give her straining bike more juice after the nasty turn that had almost ended everything the first time they’d lapped it.

_Oh, no! Frack damnit!_

While she was trying to stay upright, she’d missed another accelerator pad.

 _Move,_ Polla thought hopelessly at the bike under her legs. _Fracking_ **_move!_ **

Later, she realized it had to be the throttle overdrive mods kicking in… probably... but at the time, it seemed like magic, the way the bike abruptly bucked forward. Numbers flashed high overhead as she passed the down. The Mandalorian kid was stuck now behind the other guy at the head of the pack. There’d been five the first heat. Now it was her, the kid and this guy she’d barely noticed, who seemed to be kicking her and the kid’s collective asses.

 _Go to hell,_ she thought blackly at him, imagining his bike abruptly spinning out as he slammed back down the whiplash cut--

XXX

“Tough break,” Canderous muttered to himself, watching the screen overhead that tracked the racers. The lead mark--who wasn’t the crazy Deralian _or_ Riek--had spun out into a wall, hitting it head-on when he tried to descend along the part of the course called the Deadly Spiral. Crash didn't look survivable, from the way he wasn't moving.

The race was down to two and the fight that had broken out between the Jedi and Sith on the floor seemed to have died down. Maybe.

_Maybe Riek has a shot to win this after all. Huh._

Canderous glanced down at the floor below the stands again, keeping an eye out for that dar’jett Twi’lek who’d approached the prisoners before. But the man appeared to have vanished.

But the Jedi were still free--and now advancing on the knot of Vulkars clustered by the announcer’s stand.

 _Huh._ “Hey kid,” he said conversationally, leaning over his seat again. “You two armed? Might want to keep your heads down.”

“I ain’t--” the girl’s rebuttal was drowned out by the Wookiee’s howl. The man pulled a heavy-plate repeater up from beneath the seats, and nodded at Canderous, growling something at the kid.

“You sure?” The girl’s eyes widened. “Mister, Big Z says the Hunt-King is coming. We all need to get out of here--”

The roar of engines drowned out the rest of her insults as the racers came near again--two bikes screaming down the final straightaway. Looked close face-on, but on the screen above, Riek’s swoop marked a good five meters ahead.

_Good job, dikut’la._

“Oh!” The girl launched herself out of her Wookiee’s arms like a Kuati missle, standing and jumping up and down. “They’re almost here! Come on, Polla! You can do it!”

 _Polla._ Right. That was the Deralian’s name. Canderous felt a twinge of guilt for remembering her shape more than her name before he looked back up at the screen, where, incredibly, she and Riek were neck-to neck now---

And least until Riek shot onto the accelerator pad and Polla hit a pylon, sending her bike ratcheting against the wall.

The few bystanders made incredulous noises and Canderous himself blinked hard, wondering if he was losing his eyes. The woman’s swoop _bounced_ against the wall, nearly winging Riek’s, before accelerating again, racing like a blur _over_ the next three pylons before landing on the final pad of the race--

The bells clanged and the finish time lit the stands. Bells chiming as all the automated holo-cams flashed around the smuggler who was the winner.

She pulled off her helm and raised her hand in victory, only to have some scruffy-looking type practically pull her off the bike into what looked like a mutual embrace.

Canderous politely averted his eyes.

“Wow! That was amazing!” The Twi’lek jumped up and down. “Gotta be some record!”

The Wookiee groaned, perhaps less enthused.

“Yeah, I know, Big Z, but that bike can do anything! Hope Polla doesn’t crash before I get a chance to ride it!”

Riek’s swoop had passed the line a good five seconds off his previous time. Canderous felt some vague relief the kid had made it through clear. Maybe since he'd lost, the kid’d find a more interesting hobby.

“Guess your friend won a pair of Jedi--if that Sith don’t mind.” Canderous grinned pleasantly to the Twi’lek. They were halfway down in the row of seats from the floor. A few more viewers from the top row charged down--and he glanced across the room to see who was left. The woman with the blonde tail of hair and the body armor caught his eye as she always did no matter where--

_Huh. Selven. Didn’t know she followed the races._

“There's one more heat,” the blue kid said. “And buzz off. Calo told me not to talk to Kang’s Boys.”

“Oh? Except for him? Nord doesn’t have the right to make that call, kid. You don’t work for him.”

“I don’t work for nobody. But why don’t you ask him?” Kid made a face and her Wookiee vod growled. “He’s right behind us.”

“What?” _Sloppy!_ Canderous turned his head just in time to see Nord’s familiar goggled and squat body descend the stands in his bastard beskar.

“Canderous.” Calo Nord, Canderous's nominal boss, cleared his throat. He had a blaster already in his hand. “Glad you’re here. Cover me.” He paused, goggled eyes glancing up. “Don't kill the Jedi. Or that… or the woman racer. Everyone else… orders say no witnesses.”

“No witnesses?” the Twi’lek interrupted. “Hey! You just can’t--”

“Get her out of here, Zaalbar,” Nord snapped. “If you both want to live. Won’t say it twice.”

Canderous eyed the Vulkars clustered near the announcer’s stand. _What a waste of plasma cells._ “Right.” His eyes went back to Selven, who’d set up a sniper’s nest in the rapidly-clearing stands. If Nord was here it _might_ get interesting, but, attractive as the blonde was (she reminded him a bit of Gwen) they couldn’t afford to give her the upper ground.

“No!” Nord grabbed his arm, just as Canderous started to set up a solid shot at the blonde bounty hunter. “Not Selven! Who d’you think--”

“You don't pay me to think,” Canderous pointed out, shrugging. _Or at all, recently._ The man looked furious--and there was something else in his expression too. Fear. “What’s the--” and then he got it. “Oh. You're a fortunate man.”

“Just focus on the Vulkars,” Nord snapped. “Leave the stands to Selven and me.”

“We’re working _with_ her?” That was a new wrinkle.

“Hey!” The dumb kid Twi’lek next to Canderous interrupted instead of using him and the Wookiee as cover to go to ground. “What are you talking about. You can't just shoot civs--”

Nord groaned. “Vao? Keep your head _down!”_

“You can't tell me what to do--”

The Wookiee howled--

\--and then all hell broke loose.

Xxx

As Revan’s _\--Polla’s--_ adrenaline spiked, so did Bastila’s. Now that the Force was back, the roar of the other woman’s thoughts threatened to swamp her senses completely.

 _I didn’t make him crash into that wall. His bike must have been shit. Hells! Not my fault that guy died. I’m going to win this thing. Frack, if I’m going to die like this--I can’t die like this--I have to win this thing--something’s wrong--_ why _is it so cold?_

_Something’s getting closer._

Pain lanced through Bastila’s shoulder as Revan’s swoop bike crashed into a wall. Without thinking, Bastila _repelled_ the machine back and then forward--relying on a Force reserve she'd never known she had. It was an an act of raw instinct more than rational thought--for a moment, Bastila felt as if she was straddling the swoop machine herself, read-outs flashing on her visor’s display, her hands locked in a death-grip upon the wheel--

_Yes! I’ve got this! Course I’ve got this! Carth’s gonna piss himself when he sees my time--_

The bike hit the finish line and that feeling of triumph peaked like a glitterstim high--not that Bastila truly knew what--

_That was fracking kandosii! Fracking good as fracking! Grass Priests, I fracking did it!_

Bastila felt her breath rush out and swung herself off the smoking ruin of the swoop; laughing, and smiling up into a pair of warm brown eyes--

“You did it, Legs, but we’ve got trouble.”

XXX

Wrapped in the concealing shadows of his Force weaves, Davad Arkan stood by the race’s finish line, trying to figure out why Tio was being such a grandstanding fool. Did he think this would impress Malak? The man was more likely to get himself shot.

_That would be amusing. And a good distraction._

Still cloaked by the Force, he folded his arms, and leaned against the wall, his eyes narrowing as he saw the Telosian embrace Revan--

XXX

“You did it, Legs, but we’ve got trouble.” Carth had come out of nowhere, helping Polla off the bike, bare arms locking under hers, pulling her from the swoop before she even had a chance to gloat. “Get down,” he whispered, warm in her ear. “Jedi are free and we need to get out of here. Things are ugly.”

Polla’s eyes registered the Mandalorian kid on his bike next to hers and farther afield a pile of bodies by the announcer stand. _Unconscious? Dead?_ “Legs, huh?” Her voice came out low and amused, even as she stiffened, reaching for the blaster that wasn’t on her belt. _Unconscious or dead? Ugly._ It _was_ ugly. “You spend all night thinking that one up, Captain? [Trouble,]” she added in Manda for the kid, who was staring at them funny, before a sharp whistle drew his attention off too.

“Had to do something to get your attention.” Carth’s voice was a husky rasp in her ear. He’d lost his jacket, and his arms were bare, warm skin on hers where her racing suit had ripped. Polla turned around towards his voice, only to find he was staring hard into her eyes, his arms now locked to the small of her back. His eyes were brown and strangely soft and then their lips brushed--almost by accident. He made a noise in his throat, and those eyes crinkled at the corners. She felt his smile against her own mouth and she pressed hers forward, her lips down hard into his--

His lips were warm and open, and his breath smelled like minna and for a second Polla’s mouth opened too, and her knees went weak as the world disappeared--

_No! Married!_

“Dial it _down,_ Flyboy!” She shoved him back, just as the Vulkar gang’s reinforcements came bursting through the main archway.

XXX

Stealthed next to Selven in the stands it was easy to count the soon-to-be-dead. Twenty Vulkars and about thirty onlookers. If only there was another way--

_Everyone in this room just saw you talk to Shan and the kid. You know it's not a choice, Vik._

There was that feeling in the Force too--like a cloud about to break. Malak. And… something else too. Something more subtle, like a chill tickling Vikor’s lekku.

“Just say when, boss.” Next to him, Selven was all business now, setting up her sniper’s nest. Below them, it looked like Revan had won the swoop race, improbable as that seemed.

“Now,” he muttered, still stealthed. “I mean, when.”

Vik had tried to work with Brejik and Gadon, tried to build a rebellion from within, but for all his work the Vulkar leader had just gift-wrapped the war’s most important pieces for Malak and handed them off.

_You know what you have to do._

His muscles bunched and he leapt back toward the floor, flipping his stealth belt off, red blade spinning in a way that would have made his old master despair of him ever learning the proper Forms. But it looked good, and this was all about that.

He landed in a crouch in front of Shan.

Padawan Shan stared at him, her face a perfect Jedi blank. Next to her, the Ithorian kid raised a shockstaff he must've grabbed from one of the Vulkars.

Vik lowered his voice while raising his saber hand, rolling the hilt to bear. _Here we go again._ “Well, well, well. You’re my prisoners now. Lord Malak will be _so_ pleased.”

Bastila Shan tilted her head as if she was trying to understand. “We are not your prisoners yet.”

 _Thank the Force._ But Vik had to make this look good. He glanced up to the stand to see if Selven was watching--

 _Save the prime targets,_ he traced with his lekku, and saw her nod. _Kill the rest. Now._

Xxx

The Wookiee’s howl and the sound of blaster fire seemed to happen simultaneously, as the Vulkars erupted into violence at once--almost like they’d been primed.

The two Jedi were now fighting what appeared to be what remained of the Black Vulkars. There’d been maybe fifteen gang members on the floor last Canderous had checked. They'd found reinforcements since.

But that Sith, Tio, he stood in the back with his lightsaber up like he was watching a show.

 _Hu’tuun Jett’ai._ Two against thirty. Of course, they also looked like they might win, especially with the onlookers providing cover fire. _Heh. And Nord says we can join the fun. Kill the Vulkars? Save the Jedi for later?_

Canderous shouldered his repeater and powered it on.

XXX

Bastila’s mind had slipped once more, and there was the press of muscular arms around her, and the sudden, shockingly hard press of lips against hers, the rasp of stubble against her skin--

Carth Onasi’s face was smiling grimly back at hers, at--

_Revan’s. At Revan’s. Not mine, I-I am still standing here--here with Vik Tio--_

A hot and utterly inappropriate blush scalded Bastila’s cheeks. _I must control this. I must escape. What are they doing? Of all times--_

“Bastila?” Darth Tio’s head cocked and he was saying something to Elias in Ithorian, and Elias was there, his long fingers curled on her arm, whispering urgency-- “Did you hear me? You are my prisoners. Malak will be so pleased--”

_Huh? Musta hit my head harder than I thought. Can’t have been that kiss. Anyway, I don’t kiss married men… back. He shoulda told me. Now we need to go collect his two pet Jedi--where are they--did they kill all those--_

_Revan’s thoughts. Not mine._

_Huh? Isn’t Revan dead? I must be losing it. Why is that Jedi bint looking at me--and who’s--that’s the ugly Twi’lek from the bar? The Sith ass from the doc--is he_ following _us?_

A hot blast of anger left Bastila breathless.

_He better not be following!_

How long had the masters worked with her to forge a mental barrier between her private thoughts and the smuggler's?

_Breathe. Focus. All is well. Remain calm--_

The sound of blaster fire that interrupted everything was strangely familiar, almost soothing, as suddenly the world again became simple.

XXX

He wished it had been more of a kiss. It hardly counted, Carth thought. Later, he wouldn’t count it--would almost forget it by the time it was eclipsed by the kiss after--the one that ran long and slow and sweet before it went to hell. The one they’d stolen on a dead man’s ship running from a dying planet. The one he'd remember til the end of his days.

“Dial it _down,_ Flyboy!” Polla pushed him back, hard enough that he stumbled.

“What--”

In the now, Carth barely had time to register the startled green of Polla’s eyes before the blasters started firing. Then the world snapped back into all-too-familiar territory.

_Shoot the other guys before they shoot you._

“Get down!” He tackled her to the ground--

XXX

There were times, Selven thought, when oaths ceased to have meaning. Times when sentients in her profession had to make the call.

Those times didn’t come easily. Selven had taken contracts from _two_ Sith Lords not to harm a hair on that empty, top-knotted bitch’s head. Beya would have her wait and see… and Tio would have her _save_ them: Revan and Bastila Shan both.

Selven had seen what was left of Yu-Phaedra personally. She’d seen the footage from Malachor Five--what existed of it, all classified, all officially off the record. She’d be damned if Taris would suffer a similar fate.

A monster had been reborn, and was standing before her as helpless as newborn nerf.

 _Or maybe not so helpless. That speeder crash--the way Gerlon’s bike went off course and into that wall--_ She’d told him racing was dangerous. But that had been a bad death. Her implants replayed it again, a holographic ghost-image overlaying her focus on the woman below.

A bad death that defied all laws of physics.

Malak might be a madman, but he kept the things he treasured _safe--_ and for whatever reason, her homeworld had prospered under his boot. At least the parts that Selven cared about had prospered.

Selven would do everything to ensure they continued to prosper... and the easiest way to ensure that was to end this affair now. For wasn’t that her Order’s true purpose? To take the actions that others could not?

The vows the Genoharadan took were supposed to be inviolate. Why would anyone hire them otherwise? And yet, there was the matter of conscience. Conscience was part of their contract too.

_We serve the One for the good of the galaxy. And we are trained to know the greater good for the greatest number._

_There is no galaxy where I should let this woman keep breathing. I dare any of the Overseers to disagree with me. If one were here--_

But the message she had transmitted privately to Hulas had gone unanswered.

“Calo?” she whispered into the headset implanted in her jaw, even though there was no one near her on the stands to hear. “I’m sorry.”

 **“What?”** If she looked, Selven knew she would see her lover looking toward her from his station near the front. But she didn’t look, not when she had a moving target in her sights to shoot.

Her scope beeped, focusing on the woman’s brainwiped head--   

XXX

Carth tackled Polla to the ground, but she spun out of his grasp in a roll.

That asshole Brejik was down and Polla hadn’t even seen who had killed him--or if he’d been dead by the time she’d won the race. A lot of the Vulkars were down, and the rest retreated fast. It all happened so quickly that later she was never sure where she’d picked up the vibroblade--only that the length of it felt better in her hand than the one she'd held before, and she was jabbing one pointy end through that fat Human guy before she noticed it had two pointy ends.

_Double-blade. Sweet._

_I just killed--_

The other side extended with a click and she spun off an assault by some sleemo with an axe, ducking to get good ground--

The wash of cold nearly froze her bones mid-jab, made Polla glance up to make sure Mission and Zaalbar were safe in the stands. They were, hunkered down next to a hulk wearing beskar, all of them providing covering fire.

 _We need to leave. We need to leave_ now. She glanced over at the Mandie fighting beside her, the one she’d just smoked in the race. He had a blade in his hand too and a smile on his half-visored face.

“It’s Riek, right?”

“You remembered.” He nodded, grinning. “Is this the liberation of Taris? Is this how it starts?”

“I guess?” _Why not?_ “Sure.” Another wave of menace washed over Polla and she looked up into blue eyes--

\--no, green.

_As long as they aren’t red. Red eyes are bad--_

Braids, a delicate face. Dark hair--

“Polla,” the Hope of the Republic said. “Scout Organa. We need to leave this place. Immediately.”

“Polla?” Carth added, somewhere next to Bastila Shan. “The Jedi say something’s coming--”

“Something’s here.” She just _knew._ Her eyes flickered to that Twi’lek Sith, who was standing there with a red laser sword looking almost ridiculous with the lot of them armed and surrounding him. She stared at him and he took a step backwards. “Not you.” She shook her head, strange hysteria bubbling in her gut. “Not _you,_ it’s _him--”_

“He was a Jedi knight,” Bastila’s voice in her ear. Or her head? The woman sounded so close but there were meters between them. _Why is he just standing there? Vikor could have ended us--but I saw him kill those Vulkars, almost as if--_

“Not him!” Polla shook her head again, backing up, backing way up, toward the entrance. A bolt whistled by her head from the stands and she ducked, rising fury in her chest, and grabbed a blaster from the ground, firing blindly back--

The blonde-haired woman in the stands raised her rifle as if she was going to try again--and then blurred, caught by a plasma bolt. She slumped forward, unmoving.

“Down you go.” Carth’s voice was a harsh whisper. He slipped his own pistols back in their holsters. He grabbed Polla’s arm, while she was still gaping. Had she shot her--?

_No. It was Carth’s modified Aratech._

“We need to go,” Bastila repeated. “Scout Organa, we need to go.”

 _That bint tried to kill me? She_ dared? Polla stared numbly at the dead woman in the stands, and then back to the Twi’lek Sith, who looked nearly as startled as she did.

“Selven,” the Sith’s voice was strange. His brow wrinkled. “But why--”

 **_“Run,”_ ** a new voice murmured. Quietly, from behind the others, but it echoed in her skull. Shadows coalesced to the left of Carth and another robed figure appeared: Human. Yellow eyes, pitted face, familiar--

 _I know you._ It was the Sith who had been with Beya, the one who had lied and said he was a Jedi.

“Who are you?” she demanded, but the Sith only laughed. Around him, the others seemed frozen, as if time had stopped. Carth’s mouth was open, one hand outstretched toward her, the other still holding his gun. Bastila Shan was wide-eyed, caught in the middle of a frown. Riek’s head was turned back toward someone out of her line of sight--

The smoke from Carth’s blaster was frozen around the barrel, his hand still cocked on the trigger. The Twi’lek Sith’s saber was silenced, the light around it hard and still as stone.

_I’m hallucinating. I’m losing my mind. This can’t be real--_

**_“Run,”_ ** the man said. **_“He’s coming. You need to run.”_ **  Those lines in his grayish-brown skin, the shaved pate of his skull--what was with the Sith and ugly? But he might have been handsome once. She had thought that before. She had… seen him before. He alone seemed capable of movement. His voice was strange and gentle. **_“You need to run.”_ **

Polla’s mind reached and found his name _\--Davad Arking? The asshole from before. He killed those kids in the Undercity. Beya said not to trust him. She said he’s evil--_

_But before that--before--_

“Trask? Not-Trask!” There was a roaring in her ears, like something was splintering. “You said--before--you were… I met you before--you were on the ship--”

 ** _“You need to run,”_** Davad Something said again. His voice shifted, became darker, lower, until it tugged frozen tendrils into her brain, as she realized she couldn’t run, that she was just as frozen as the rest. **_“You need to run now. He’s coming. You need to run now. Polla Organa. Run.”_**

Polla blinked. For a second, the world slipped again and she was watching her own back--her posture half crouched, holding the sword and the blaster--watching herself crouching before a black-robed Sith Human with a ruined face and yellow eyes--a man who had stepped out of the air, who hadn’t been there the moment before.

A man whose lips weren’t moving, but she heard him all the same.

**_“Run.”_ **

_Davad Arkan. Heir to Onderon before he joined the Jedi--_

That wasn’t her thought. It was alien--inserted. And Polla watched as her own body abruptly dropped the staff and the blaster and spun, accelerating back into the tracks, leaping over Riek’s swoop--

And then she was back in her skin, breath coming short and panicked. Her feet hit the duracrete floor and sped forward faster still, sheer adrenaline propelling her away from the fight, away from--

_Carth--I lost Carth--_

_\--who’s coming? Who?_

_He’s coming. I need to run. I need to run now. He’s coming._

_Who?_

It didn’t matter. It was a blank space.

**He’s coming. Run.**

_XXX_

The Black Vulkars had died miserably and fast.

Carth might have felt sorry for them, if he hadn’t been tracking all those crashed escape pods whose inhabitants had been turned into the Sith for credits for the last two weeks. There had been a stack of insignia in one of the drawers in the Black Vulkar office where they’d rescued the Wookiee and that Undercity girl: inside, at least a dozen chits from the _Spire’s_ dead. (Hopefully dead--there were worse things.)

He’d pocketed them without counting exact, without looking for names he’d known. Maybe someday when the smoke cleared, Carth would make it back to notify their kin. But there was no point now, not when odds were greater he’d end up dead too, with his own Fleet idchip just another chit in someone’s souvenir drawer.

“What--” One minute he knew exactly where Polla Organa was. He’d just saved her life from a sniper’s blast. The next--she tore past, followed more slowly by _another_ sauntering black-robed Sith apparition--this one Human--twirling a red lightsaber with a mocking smile on his face--

_Another one of those bastards--there’s never just one--_

“Arkan?” The Twi’lek Sith’s voice was a threatening growl--now turned on the other Sith and not them. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“That seems like a question I should ask you,” the other replied. The man raised his hand and… and… and _waved,_ before his image flickered and vanished. In the next moment, Bastila Shan was standing next to Carth, barking orders at him that might as well have been in Wookiee for all the sense they made.

“Polla,” he interrupted. “Where the hell did she go?”

“Carth!” Mission grabbed his hand. She and Zaalbar had come down with from the stands, accompanied by an armored Mandalorian who wasn’t shooting at them, so he seemed to be on their side. “Big Z says that hunter wasn’t here for us. But something else bad is coming. Something really, really bad--we need to go!”

“It is Malak.” Bastila had that clipped, precise tone he’d gotten so used to hearing from the upper Fleet brass. “I don’t have any more idea what just happened here than you do, Captain. But we need to follow Polla Organa. Immediately.” She raised her voice, addressing the room, her words abruptly amplified and strangely heavy. **“Darth Malak is coming. If any of you value your lives you need to flee. You cannot fight him. And he will not leave survivors.”**

XXX

That depthless pit of coruscating darkness was closer now. It made Davad’s breath quicken and a part of him longed to roar his own challenge. Malak, now entirely enraged, was bearing down upon this location like an avenging god.

_But I could best him here. I could best him now._

**Not yet. You will not rise openly yet. You WILL ensure her safety--her and the Shan girl too--**

_Yes, master._ He felt his lips curl, as he watched from the shadows as the remaining fragile nest of sentients scattered: the bulk running after Revan and the path she had chosen; other insects choosing to squeeze themselves into cracks in the wall, under stairs where they would too easily be found--trying to hide in the cracks of this room itself--

He frowned. They could not live to be questioned.

His saber spun from shadows, and took out two before returning to his hand. The last gave a startled yelp and ran. That was all--except for Tio… and that reckoning could wait. Davad had been watching from the shadows long enough to see the man’s efforts to frighten Shan instead of capturing or killing her. The man was playing his own game--

_What game? And why?_

Davad had watched Shan and the rest from the shadows too--so many sentients fleeing. He would have gone after her--save for the complication before him.

Vik, standing in the middle of the ruined amphitheater, his eyes like slits, suspicious and narrowed, staring at the space where Davad had vanished, the space that Davad no longer occupied. “What did you just do, Arkan?”

“I could ask the same,” Davad whispered, sneaking up behind just to make the man jump when he dropped the weaves.

“Nice trick,” his old friend muttered, as he pivoted to face him. “You’re not even wearing a stealth belt.”

“But you are.” It seemed strange that Vik would have had the foresight to conceal himself--and for what purpose? “Why?”

“I thought the padawans might be best caught unaware.” Vik shrugged.

“But they weren’t caught at all, were they?” Davad didn’t wait for a response. Vik’s behavior was peculiar, but insignificant compared to Malak’s wrath.

“You were always the best hunter.” Vik motioned toward the track’s tunnel down which the survivors had fled. “Strange you’re not giving chase.”

Davad closed his eyes and took a deep breath, relishing the silence, the fragile peace, savoring the scent of fear. He extended his senses until the room itself became insubstantial: the air crystallizing into a wealth of scents and traces that the living left: the smell of ozone and engine oil, Wookiee stench, Gamorrean blood, Human death and shit--

_And her. And her._

_I can track them easily--if I leave soon._

“I will always be the best hunter,” Davad said calmly. “See you remember that.”

“Short of a Jedi task force, I don’t know how I could forget.” Vik snorted, his lips pulling back from his teeth. But he could not hide the scent of his fear. Something about it made Davad’s gut clench pleasantly. “So. Are you going to go after them or not?”

“Are you?”

“I--”

Whatever Vik’s response might have been was lost in the darkness that crashed over Davad’s extended senses like a sickly oil, extinguishing all else.

Davad turned toward the main archway, hilt still in hand, his blood rising in response.

“Did we miss the party, Davad?” Beya’s clear laughter rang through the silenced space--proving his strength’s limitation. He had been so focused on the past that he had missed her presence entirely, concealed within Malak’s black rage.

“I’m afraid so,” Davad murmured, eyes locking with the Twi’lek five meters across from him. “Vikor and I both arrived too late, it would seem.”

“Unfortunately,” Vikor added. “It appears there was a gang war.” Careful words. Not a lie. How many times before had Vikor used careful words?

“But Shan _was_ here.” Malak’s metallic voice hardened, rage almost visible in the air. “And with _her--”_

Davad met those yellow eyes evenly, locking his thoughts behind a perfect wall. “Yes, Lord Malak.” He exhaled. “I can track them, master.”

The darkness of the Sith lord’s fury was nearly visible--that odd mix of hot and cold and corruption as familiar as the man’s smile had been once. “As you have before?” The man’s hand twitched, and Davad noticed how Beya turned pale.

 _Did you betray me so soon, Organa?_ “They… _this_ time they can’t have gone far,” he added. Malak’s eyes felt like they were burning holes through his skull; but Davad knew the weak point that would wound his old friend harder than any cut, the jab that would disrupt this interrogation before it could even begin.

_The Starfire’s face swam into his mind, twisted in ecstasy; the exact feel of her lovely pink nipple between his teeth--her mouth wide open and screaming his name--_

“Careful,” Malak hissed.

Davad stared back at him, the Force singing in his veins like lust, like the thrill of the chase when the zakegg is finally cornered. In that one instant, Davad thought he could seize his teeth against the vulnerable line of the man’s cannock-neck, where the voder met rotting flesh, and rend it open. “I’m always prudent,” he murmured, staring past Malak to Tio again. “Surely, my lord has noted my discretion before.”

“You will not challenge me. Not… yet.” His old friend paced slowly back and forth in front of him, blocking his view of Vik. “You would lose very badly.” Malak’s hand twisted and Davad felt the warning press of power against the skin of his own bared throat. Malak paced through the wreckage and extended his hand, making that odd choking sound that had replaced his laugh. Above them, from the viewing seats, a figure rose, goggled and squat, kicking and cursing in Malak’s Force grip--the only sentient left alive in the room. “One of yours, Beya?”

“That’s Calo Nord,” Beya said, as Malak raised his fist and the man was propelled forward, landing on the floor in a pile of crumpled armor. “Freelancer.”

“Wrong.” The Sith Lord’s voice was flat. “Did you not know?”

“He’s Genoharadan,” Vik interrupted. “They’re getting away, my lord, we should send pursuit…?”

“Do you think Bandon and your Blades are incompetent, Davad?” Malak knelt over the twitching body as the agent’s head lolled back. His heavy hand ripped off the goggles. Underneath them, the man’s eyes were augmented, chased with silver and filled with tears. Nord twitched a little, staring up at them all as if trying not to breathe.

_Wise of him. Like a cannock in a snare._

“No, Lord Malak.” Davad wished Beya would speak but she just kept that smug smile on her face.

“Pursuit becomes a game only when the outcome is certain.” Malak shrugged. “Bandon is already playing. Would you like a turn too, Davad?”

 _Bandon is stuffed unconscious in a supply closet one level below us. And my Blades that accompanied him are already dead._ His thoughts remained locked behind a perfect wall, but Davad let himself smile at his enemy. “As you wish, Malak.”

“M-my lord,” the Genoharadan agent whispered, words garbled. His face worked, twisting in agony.

“He has a poisoned capsule between his teeth.” Malak sounded amused. “Beya?”

The Deralian stepped forward and injected the mercenary with something. “They keep changing the formula,” she groused. “But that should work as an antidote.” Her expression was unreadable when she glanced up at Davad. _“My_ Genoharadan agent is dead in the stands, but _this_ one should be able to give us a transcript of what transpired. His eyes are recording devices.”

_If he was not yours, than who--_

“Calo Nord. He was reporting back to the Republic.” Malak straightened from the near-corpse, folding his arms and glaring at Davad. “I would hate for them to lose such a guaranteed source, wouldn’t you?”

 _Just how much do you know of what they know?_ It was not the first time Davad had wondered. The Senate he could understand, but there were times when Malak’s knowledge of the Jedi Council’s plans outstripped his own, and that--that should not have been possible.

 **_That is not your concern, my apprentice._ ** The old woman, a whisper in his mind. **_Press the advantage. Infuriate him._ **

_Gladly._ Davad cleared his throat. “My lord Malak, do you wonder what the Jedi had planned for Revan with this Redemption? Is Bandon subtle enough to find out?”

“Some strategy to win the war.” Malak shrugged. “My father knew that much. A mere _child_ would know that much. The Jedi’s plan has already failed, so what does it matter? Do you sense _her?_ In the Force at all?”

“What?” In between the usual bluster, the question was so unexpected that Davad blinked. “Can I sense Shan? Or--”

 _“Her.”_ Disjointed images flashed through Davad’s mind now, nearly pinning him to the ground with the strength of their vehemence. Revan. Naked. Splayed out on a white bed, laughing and eager and beautiful--achingly so--that warm light in her eyes that he had never seen--not directed to him. “My _wife._ Can you sense my _wife?”_

“No.” Davad had tried--but he could only trail her scent. “There’s nothing left. That shell can barely touch the Force--”

But she _had_ touched it. Davad had seen her fight--just a few moments, graceful as ever, bringing death to these sewer-dwellers not even fit to be ground beneath her boots--

“You still want.” Malak cleared the distance between them in a heartbeat. His gloved hand brushed the side of Davad’s face. “You still want her shell.”

If they’d been different sorts of friends before, his gesture might have seemed a caress. As it was, those gloved fingers singed sparks that ignited Davad’s very nerves with cold fire, numbing the side of his face instantly. Malak had been a healer once, he recalled. With a healer’s knowledge of muscle, nerve, and bone.

“Yes.” It was not worth the lie, when the truth gave the man pain.

The man's eyes narrowed. “I could... give her to you, Arkan. Have you considered that?”

“No.” Malak's fingers tightened on his jaw and it occurred to Davad that if the man ripped it off, his real master would probably _still_ make him crawl on the floor before the egg-cursed Malak D’Reev--assuming he didn’t die from blood loss first. “She’s yours, master. Of course, she’s yours--as you… said… your… _wife._ ”

“Don’t lie.” The words softened in a duracrete burr. “Not to me, Davad. Not when we’ve shared… so, so much--”

“I hate to break up your love fest,” Beya interrupted. “But--”

“Bandon seeks Shan. And Arkan will find _her_ again. He's a _capable_ kath.” Malak’s thick finger brushed against Davad’s lips. It smelled like blood and offal. _“Very_ capable. There was a time when Red would open her mind to me--and I to her. In those times, we used to share….”

Another image assaulted Davad’s senses, and this one all the more chilling because he saw his own body like someone looking down on it from above between two perfect breasts--a slender hand tracing the sweat on his chest, tangling in the mat of hair below his navel--

The shiver was involuntary. The ghost of passion. And worse, _fear._ Davad hated himself for it nearly as much as he hated Malak.

**Malak is a fool. He makes you strong. He turns your base desires to power--but not yet. Not enough. Do not challenge him--let him fuel more of your strength, let him catalyze your transformation--**

“I will find her,” he vowed, letting his lip curl. “Master.”

“Bring me Shan… and perhaps…? I can be… generous. I _may_ let you have her.” Malak’s hand stroked Davad’s jaw again, then dropped abruptly. “At least once.” Sensation returned with a sharp pain, and Davad forced his breathing to steady, forced his own hands to remain open, tamping down the beast inside that wanted to open the man’s ruined throat--

“Yes, Lord Malak.” His own voice felt hollow and fragile. Fury mixed with uncommon fear in Davad’s gut.

**Do not trust him. Some trap awaits.**

_I am not a fool, master._ Could the old woman hear him? Sometimes, Davad was never quite sure.

“Good.”  Malak chuckled darkly. “When Beya was... kind enough to give me the location of these makeshift swoop tracks I sent Bandon to the other side of this level. Check on his progress.”

Next to Malak, Vik Tio blanched. A faint twitch. Invisible, perhaps, to one who had not so recently noted his scent--now with the addition of true fear.

“Something wrong, Vik?” Davad asked.

Beya’s expression remained fixed. She might as well have been carved from stone.

“My Genoharadan agent is dead. There, in the stands.” Vikor shrugged. “I will have to file a claim with the guild. Did you still need my help tracking the Jedi padawan and the smuggler?”

“You shall remain with me.” Malak looked down at the Twi'lek. One of his eyes seemed to have developed a tic. His Force surged around them like congealed blood, thickened and stinking. For all Malak’s open calm, Davad could taste the man’s abject fury, still shaking the Force around them.

“Does my lord want _me_ to stay with Davad?” Beya asked.

“No. Sheris requested your presence on Manaan. I had assumed you would prefer an immediate departure, but if you want to stay--”

“Immediate is fine.” Beya’s eyes glinted with eagerness. “I’ll go. Good luck, Davad. I guess you’re on your own.”

**This is a trap, apprentice. A trap for you. Spring the mechanism, but do not be caught in its teeth--**

_I know._ “By your leave, _Mal?”_ Davad gathered himself, veiling his true strength in shadows, ignoring the burning in his guts, the gnawing emptiness, the vacant scream that never really ended.

Malak shrugged his massive shoulders. “Leave.”

Davad met his rival’s eyes, and smiled with all of his teeth. “When I catch her, would you like me to give her a kiss for you?”

Malak’s breath hissed through the prosthesis, in and out. His yellow eyes blazed, almost red in this light. **_“Go.”_ **

XXX

_Run. Something’s coming. Something bad. Something dark, something wrong--_

Footsteps pounded behind her. “Scout Organa! Stop!”

_I can’t. I need to run. Run **,** he said run, I need to run-_

Abruptly, Polla was flying ass over head across the sickly-slick floor of the sewer tunnel, her elbow jamming painfully into a wall.

“Frack!” She looked up to see Miz Jedi looming over her, nearly spilling out of her silksynth straps. “No! I need to run! He’s coming! I need to--”

“Calm yourself.” Bastila Shan knelt down and grasped Polla’s arm, helping her stand up again. “You have been placed under a compulsion. That dark Jedi infused you with fear, but you… you can resist it.” For all her calm words, her chest was heaving, and her eyes were glassy and scared too. “Please, Scout Organa. Fear will not save us in this place.”

“Compulsion--”

**_Run. You need to run. You need to run he’s coming._ **

“Who’s coming?” she demanded.  “Who the frack is coming?”

Those dark blue eyes blinked. The other woman swallowed. “Darth Malak.”

“And he's worse than that asshole who told me to run?” Polla shook her head. The anger cleared her thoughts like a sluice of ice water.

Bastila Shan had a small, pink mouth. It fell open in surprise. “He’s… the Dark Lord of the Sith.”

“Right.” Polla snorted. “So _why_ aren't we still running?” _Does the Dark Lord of the Sith come after every Jedi personally? No wonder she's frightened._

Polla’s eyes skipped to the Ithorian kid, who'd just appeared from the way they'd come, looking pale as a lema.

[“The others are close,”] he chirped. [“The blue Twi’lek young-sprout stopped to set a charge.”]

“You mean Mission? Is Carth safe too? Zaalbar? Riek?”

A stab of guilt pricked her that it had taken her this long to think of them. But the voice in her head had drowned everything out, leaving Polla with nothing but the desire to run--

[“Forgive me, I do not know the names.”] The Ithorian’s head stalk inclined.

[“Quiet your seedlings,”] she told him. [“There's no use trying to put the tree back in the hole.”]

“Your Ithor is very good,” Miz Jedi interrupted. She kept glancing back the way they'd come, but showed no sign of moving.

From somewhere behind them came the sound of an explosion. The ceiling rattled, then stilled.

All three of them looked up.

_That was a good explosion. How do I know--tunnel’s down now between us and what it was back there--_

“That will not hold them forever,” Bastila warned. She lifted her chin. “When the others reach us, we must orchestrate some way of escaping this sector.” She nodded at Polla. “Perhaps our scout has some ideas.”

“Not really. I know a lot of languages,” Polla told Miz Jedi. “That's why I got the job. Some asshole nurse gave me this song and dance about saving-- _serving--_ the Republic because I know a lot of languages--”

[“Is she damaged?”] the kid interrupted. [“How can she not remember the failure at Dantooine?”]

“Be quiet! Both of you.” Bastila Shan was grinding her teeth. A sickly noise that Polla could almost… feel, sliding back and forth-- “The others--we will give them a few more moments--”

“How can who not remember what failure on Dantooine?” Another farm planet, something like Deralia. Polla had made a pit stop there once--just a brief drop on the planet’s South Pole. Some kind of artifact broker was running ancient relics and needed to get a few crates to Corulag, no questions asked--

“I didn’t take the job!” she said. “Wasn’t failure--just wasn't worth my time. The artifacts were fake.”

“Not now,” Bastila snapped. “Both of you. Please!”

A familiar growl echoed through the corridor, then the sound of running feet.

“Wow Polla! You’re _fast_ for a Human!” Mission appeared in the narrow hall, smiling and dusted with plasticore. Zaalbar loomed protectively behind her. “Soon as Kang’s Boys’ got clear, I brought down the support beams with a few sticks of perma and a delayed charger. Tunnel’s sealed behind us.” Mission rubbed her arms, shivering. “Still feels freezing down here, through.”

[“It is not cold, Mission, but there is still death near. We must be wary before we descend further into the depths--”]

“Kang’s Boys is an offensive term,” another voice said. “We are not boys, and Davik doesn't own us.”

 _Riek._ Polla recognized the speaker, even as she lifted her head to see the lot of them crowding into the tunnel behind the Wookiee. Carth. The Mandalorian kid and an older Mando’ade with him wearing half his beskar, the rest clipped to his belt and thighs like some kind of dancing skirt.

“Sorry, Riek, I didn’t know what to call you.” Mission shrugged. “Mercs? Exchange thugs?”

“Mando’ade,” Polla corrected her. “S’cuy, Riek of Clan… what’s your clan again?”

“Clans no longer matter,” the other Manda interrupted. His face shone with sweat in the overlights, and he’d stripped off his armplates, revealing well-muscled, knotted arms, marked with scars and tattoos. “That age is past.”

“Ordo.” Carth’s voice was flat. “According that skull on his bicep, that older one’s Ordo.”

“You memorize Mandie sigils for fun, Flyboy? Oh. Yeah. He said… something. Like that.” Polla’s brain scrambled to remember the man’s name. “Cannon-bras.”

“Canderous,” the Mandalorian corrected her. _“Formerly_ of Ordo. Seems like the Empire may have twigged to your plan to liberate Taris, Republic. What’s next?”

“What’s--plan?” Carth sounded startled. And pissed. “When did you meet Polla? And who told you we had a plan?”

“She did. Your pilot.”

 _“I’m_ the pilot!” He really was cute with that confounded expression--Polla just wished it wasn't always directed at her.

“I met these Mandalorians in the Undercity,” she explained. Had that only been yesterday? “I passed out and they took me topside… guess I… _might_ have mentioned the Republic was gonna come help too…. But aren't they? They have to! This world is a fracking disaster!”

“Hey!” Mission planted herself in front of Polla--about ten centimeters shorter and all indignation. “You don't like it here--no one’s making you stay!”

“There's a blockade making us all stay,” Polla told her. “Sith warships or something in orbit? But if I had a decent ship I know I could make it out.”

“Interesting.” Cannon--Canderous--crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Two pilots. Either of you ever fly anything bigger than a snub?”

“Sure.” Polla smirked. _Kang’s Boys want to know if I can fly a_ _ship? Well, that's one step closer to Davik Kang and maybe a real fracking job once I get these Jedi and the married guy out._ “I have. Not so sure about Onasi.”

“Hey!” Carth objected, just like she knew he would.

Polla shot him a wink.

“Huh.” Canderous glanced at Riek. His scarred eyebrow raised. “Guess it might work.”

“This is _war,”_ Carth was glowering at her and the Mando’ade now. “I don't know if you chuckleheads noticed, but that was more than a swoop gang after us back there.”

“Yeah.” Canderous shrugged at the Mandie kid again. “Robes don't usually spend that much time talking. Something was off. You saw Nord? Shabuir stashed a hauler on this level. Suggest we make our way there, continue this conversation at Davik’s about twenty kilos south.” Without glancing back he started walking. He chuckled. “Probably want to beat Nord to the hauler too. Odds are, he’s dead, but someone’s shot took out his girlfriend. He’s not the forgiving type.”

 _He’s right. We do need to move._ Polla trailed after him, falling into step with the Riek kid almost like they planned it. She was aware of the others trailing them too, as if she had eyes in the back of her head.  

“Maybe Nord was there to collect the bounties? They are all in the top three.” Riek paused, switching to Mandalorian. [“But we are not turning them in. Honor is worth more than credits.”]

Canderous had a voice like granite. [“Was thinking of Davik’s new toy. The _Hawk._ One of them could fly it.”]

[“Should we pretend not to understand the burning-world tongue?”] the Ithorian asked Bastila from behind them. In Ithorian. [“They're speaking of a ship.”]

Bastila’s face was a perfect oval, eyes fixed on Polla. “Elias--”

Blue. _No green. Eyes change color. They can change color--I’m not looking at her. How do I know what--_

[“We should go to the safe place now,”] Zaalbar groaned at Mission.

“No, way, Big Z! You want to take all these people to our place?”

[“There are several pits I have dug there from where they would never re-emerge. I owe the Polla Organa and Carth Onasi for my rescue, but these others--their scent brings blood-winds. And burnings.”]

“Zaalbar!” Mission coughed. “Uh, hey, Polla? He was just kidding around. Big Z wouldn’t really--”

[“Polla Organa knows I would, to keep my cub safe.”] The last was delivered as a low growl.

“What are they saying?” Carth demanded. “Something about Davik’s ships?”

Polla craned her head back again, trying to ignore the blue eyes and that blank face. “Kang’s Boys here know about a ship. And they’re not turning us in for the reward. In fact, I think they're gonna offer us a deal. Just so we’re clear, _I’m_ the one who’s gonna fly us out, okay? And Zaalbar… I get the impression he wants us all to leave him and the kid alone.”

[“I am sorry for the trouble,”] she added, turning her head to the Wookiee. [“But you can trust my allies as you trust me.”]

[“I do not trust you,”] he yowled, clipping uncomfortably close to Polla’s heels.

“Oh, yeah?” She tried not to be intimidated by the three meters of hair and muscle and heavy repeater behind her. [“I don’t trust you either!”]

[“We will leave your hearth soon, tree-friend,”] Bastila interjected in flawless Shyriiwook. [“You have my word as a Jedi. We mean you and your cub no ill.”]

 _She speaks Wookiee too?_ Polla shivered. _Languages. They need me for languages. What the hell language do I know that Miz Jedi doesn’t?”_

[“Get fracked,”] she told Bastila, in High Toydarian. Just to see.

 _Green eyes, blazing back at her, the woman’s emotions a maelstrom, but carefully held in check. Control. She has control, even as she taunts me like a child would--_ “What was that?” the Jedi Princess said out loud.

“I said,” Polla snapped in Basic. “I’m the one who’s gonna fly the damn ship and you have a problem with that you can get mullimed out of here.”

“We’ll see.” Carth glanced at Bastila and then back to Polla. “Technically, Bastila outranks us both, soldier--”

“Carth will fly the ship,” Bastila pursed her lips in a way that made her look three decades older. _“Where_ is the ship now?”

“Don’t think we’d decided that far.” Canderous sounded amused. “So. You ever flown anything bigger than a snub, Republic?”

The roaring in Polla’s ears was fading, like the coldness had ebbed away with the tide.

_The bad thing. It’s leaving. But there’s something else--_

“Of course I have.” Captain Obvious looked predictably furious. “I ran an entire squadron at Yu-Phaedra, and before that, during the _Mandalorian_ Wars, I commanded the _Morgana_ when we stormed your _Victorious_ at the Jaxos Cluster--”

“A whole squadron?” Canderous folded his arms, not slowing his pace. “Impressive.”

“He’s joking with you,” Riek interrupted. He was starting to remind Polla of an eager-to-please kath pup. “The General and I both know who you are, Captain Onasi. You’re in Taris’s Top Three. And there’s that song.”

“General?” Mandalorians were all weird about clans but Polla didn’t remember them ever using military ranks. “Ooo, fancy.”

“You three _are_ the top three,” Canderous added. He glanced toward Mission and the Wookiee and the Ithorian kid for a moment, and then back, staring at Carth with narrowed eyes. “Makes this tricky--especially if that really was Darth Malak on your tail.”

[“Is Battle Meditation really that good?”] Riek interrupted Canderous again. [“You said that Ulic nearly turned the tide of that battle above Coruscant.”]

[“Battle Meditation is considered women's business.”]

[“I'm sorry. I did not know. But haven’t there been male Jett’ai with the gift--?”]

[“This is not the time to argue about what is women’s business--if those two were clan you would already be shamed.”]

[“Malak will not stop hunting me,”] Bastila interjected in perfect Mandalorian. [“Or… any who travel with me. But the Jedi Council would reward you richly for my return--”]

“To Coruscant?” Riek’s face lit up. “I've always wanted--”

“No. Not--” Bastila glanced at Polla again. “Our destination will be determined once we leave this place.”

“Hey, I have an idea. If Malak’s not gonna stop hunting _you,_ maybe it might be safer for the rest of us to split,” Polla offered. “At least until we _have_ the ship. Right?”

[“You can't let her leave--”]

“Be _quiet,_ Elias!” Bastila’s bosom heaved again and objectively Polla had to admire the engineering that kept those synth leather strips from falling down. “No one is going anywhere.” Her face twisted and she looked at Mission. “You...  all know more than most about our… objectives. You will _all_ be compensated richly for helping Elias and I return to our enclave.”

“On Dantooine,” the Ithorian chirped. In Basic.

“Elias!”

Polla almost felt sorry for Bastila Shan.

“Where?” Mission shook her head. “No! Uh-huh. Big Z and I are happy here.”

[“Mission….”] the Wookiee sighed. [“I do not know much of this _Malak,_ but the Hunt-King has our scents. He will not rest easily and we cannot kill him. We should leave these warriors and find our own refuge.”]

“Bantha poodoo!” the girl snapped. [“We can kill anyone we need to!”]

“You need to tell me what they're saying,” Carth said to Polla. His mouth quirked in an expression that could have gone either way. “You're the resident language expert.”

“Right. But Bastila seems pretty good with them too.” _So why’d they need me again?_  The question made her uneasy and so Polla just kept talking. “The kid says she and Zaalbar can kill anyone they want. Even the Hunt-King? Whoever. Zaalbar wants to hide. He doesn’t trust us.” Polla shrugged. “Riek doesn't think Battle Meditation is all that great--it’s overpowered and prone to its own weakness--”

Behind her, Bastila stumbled. Somehow, Polla just… _felt_ it. She turned her head again, frowning and their eyes locked. “You okay there, Jedi Shan?” she asked.

“I never said that!” Riek sounded surprised.

Canderous chuckled. “Way I heard from the team that tried to take out Sunrider, trick is getting the jump when the robe’s meditating--”

“We need to move more quickly,” Miz Jedi broke in. Two spots of pink burned, one on each of her poraclay cheeks. She was… she was _terrified_ . _That phrase. Their own weakness! It cannot be a coincidence._ “All of us together need to move. Quickly. Now. Please.” _To Dantooine. The masters will know what to do--_

“Calm down,” Polla dropped back and elbowed her gently. “We’re just kidding around, okay? We rescued you, didn't we?”

“Yes.” The word seemed forced out through locked teeth. Bastila exhaled and again that cantilivered thing she was wearing did its job.

Riek’s ears flushed scarlet. “We’re about 14 clicks from our craft,” he offered. “Unless Nord makes it there first.”

“Not sure Calo made it out of the room,” Mission said “He was still in the stands when we ran. Probably a lot of rubble between him and us now since I blew that tunnel--”

“You did very well too,” the Mandalorian kid told her. “A woman from my own clan could not have done better--”

“Riek!” Canderous sighed and shrugged. [“My apologies. He’s unblooded. In time, he will learn manners.”]

“I think he's doing okay.” Polla leaned forward and tapped the kid on the shoulder until he looked at her… which had the effect of making his entire face turn beet red.

Bastila continued, quickening her steps to match Polla’s. Ahead, the corridor widened, enabling them to walk four abreast. But somehow, Polla and Bastila and Elias ended up in the middle of the pack. “We need to formulate a plan to escape this world. A real one.”

“If you don’t want to go to Kang’s we can drop you off at the Beks,” Polla offered.

“No,” Carth shook his head. “We've caused enough trouble for Gadon and Zaerdra already. We need to minimize civilian casualties.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean… ah, it’s Bastila’s call. Padawan Shan is in charge.”

“Isn't padawan like the lowest ranking kind of Jedi?” Mission asked Polla in a mock whisper.

“No idea.” _No. There are two apprentice ranks below--_ “W-why should I care?” she added. “Do I look like a fracking Jedi?”

[“No,”] Elias warbled, swiveling his stalk to blink at her. [“You do not look like a Jedi at all, Polla Organa.”]

“We need to formulate a… a plan.” Bastila repeated. “But I agree with Carth. Minimizing the… loss of life--any life--is important.”

“Then you need to get off this rock.” Canderous laughed again. “Pretty soon the civs here will start standing in line for you to chop em down--on the off-chance of collecting your bounties.”

“Yes, mercenary.” Bastila interrupted. “But… we could use a man of your services. I saw how you protected the girl and the Wookiee just now in the stands--”

“Ain’t no one protected me!” Mission interrupted. “Me and Big Z had that entire Vulkar squad dead to rights ‘cept then you and Polla started slicin em all up!”

“I was not _slicing--”_ Polla was suddenly uncannily aware that Bastila Shan was staring at her with those blue-- _those green--_ eyes that changed-- _eyes change color. It’s what they do. Eyes change--_

“Eyes change color,” she heard herself mutter. “Right? They… change. Sometimes. Eyes can change. As long as it’s not red. As long as they’re not--”

“Polla!” Carth interrupted, pushing forward from the back. He caught her arm. “Look at me.”

She looked. His smile looked forced but his face was still brutally handsome. Reminded her a little of that bartender, the one she’d gone to school with--the one she’d been trying to impress when she crashed her speeder--

_Seiran. Seiran Wen._

_Focus._ The word had the weight of a command and Polla felt her spine straighten. “I’m fine,” she said out loud into the suddenly-deafening silence.

“She’s kind of crazy,” Mission was whispering to the Ithorian kid.

[“I know,”] he chirped back. [“But how do you know--”]

[“Tree-stalk says he knows,”] Zaalbar yowled, head tilting toward Mission. [“You like the man, heart-cub, but the woman is _not_ well--”]

[“The woman is fine,”] Polla barked. [“Not crazy,”] she added in Ithor, glaring at the kid. “What’s your name anyway? Elias Something? Doesn’t sound very Ithorian.”

“Elias T’Chong,” he clicked, passably translating the liquid syllables into something Basic. “Padawan Elias T’Chong. It is easier for the others to say. You and I have met, many times on the _Endar Spire_ \--”

“Scout Organa had a severe head injury before she joined the Fleet,” Bastila Shan’s voice was calm as frost, but it didn’t reach past a layer like Auntie Mita used to say when Polla was a kid. “She may retain… some confusion. Especially regarding recent events.”

“She took a pretty hard knock to the head again on the way down,” Carth added, smiling at Polla.

 _Traitor._ Polla glared at him until his smile faded. “Yeah, but Doc Dodonna said I was cleared to go--”

“Doc… Dodonna?” The other woman looked like Polla was speaking Shyriiwook again.

“Doc _Forn,”_ Carth interjected. “Zelka Forn. She… she gets confused. The names are similar.” He forced a laugh, staring directly at her. “It's okay. She’s--you’re better. You're a lot better.”

“I do _not_ get confused.” Polla refused to let them see how rattled she was. “Didn’t I stand down that fracking Sith asshole just now?”

“Darth Arkan?” Bastila looked frozen, but she felt… ill. Polla didn’t know how else to describe it. “You… he _spoke_ to you. There--at the end. He told you to… run away.”

Despite herself, Polla’s feet twitched, and she glanced back the way they'd come. “Right. Him too. _And_ the other guy--the Twi’lek. Vik-something. My cousin’s a Sith too. Beya Organa. She joined the Jedi first, but then she….”

_She fell. It was ____. What?_

_____._

“You okay?” Carth had her arm again. For once his glare seemed directed at Bastila. “I think the Sith did something,” he added. “To Polla before. She… she gets confused. There was a battle over Deralia. Maybe she got caught in the crossfire--sometimes the Sith… they… they take hostages--you must know. You were there--”

“I think I'd fracking remember if I was in the Battle of Deralia!” Polla pulled away from Captain Traitor. “I hit my head. My speeder hit the canyon wall! I told you! I fell--”

“Many Jedi followed Malak,” Bastila said faintly. “I didn’t know Beya Organa was your cousin, Polla. You… actually saw her here?”

“Yes, I--” Beya’s image in a mirror--her eyes the color of puke. Flushing of a fresher stall. Press of credits in her hand--

_This never happened. That never happened._

“I saw her at least once,” Polla mumbled. _There is serenity. There is peace. This never happened. You won't remember--_

“She let you go.” Bastila’s eyes widened so much Polla thought they might fall out of her skull. “Darth Organa let you go.”

“Twice.” The fresher. The credits. It came back in a rush. “She… she said I was free.”

“You cannot be free, Polla Organa.” Elias’s Basic was slurred. His double-lashed eyes blinked. “After what has happened already on this day, surely you must see that--”

“No offense, Master Jedi, but frack off!” The sickening pit in her stomach said that he was right.

“We will acquire Davik’s ship together,” Riek announced. “And I think the Deralian should fly it.”

“You're gonna pay me and Big Z too,” Mission added. “And I still ain't sure we’re coming. But we’ll help if you’re gonna get those loser SIth.”

[“We are not coming, Mission,”] Zaalbar barked.

The girl giggled, switching to Ryl. [“I always wanted to see Davik’s place. Maybe we can rob it.”]

“We need to rejoin the Jedi Fleet,” Carth said. “Don't we, Padawan Shan?”

Bastila’s mouth twitched. “Just Bastila will do, Carth. With so many civilians among us there is no need for rank.”

 _She_ hates _being called padawan. Most Jedi her age have been sent on their Knight’s trial, but all she has is this and no reward--_

_What?_

_I'm losing it. In cracking up._

Polla shook her head, fingers reaching for her topknot, twisting the hair securely between her fingers. “Whatever, Padawan Shan.”

Those blue eyes seemed to harden as they stared back at her. “Scout Organa.” Bastila gestured toward the tunnel in front of them. “Would you like to lead the way?”

“Is that my job?” Polla sniffed. “Thought I was just here for the languages.”

Xxx

Sometimes it took an army to topple a Sith Lord--as in the case of Exar Kun. Sometimes it took a Jedi Task Force--and a dreadnaught’s ion cannon.

 _And,_ Davad thought, rather smugly, _sometimes the job is best done with a well-placed rock._ He'd retrieved Bandon--then conscious and cursing, but still bound and banded with a neural disruptor--then silenced him with one well-placed blow, and then dragged Agare’s unconscious body off the main path of this tunnel system to the catwalk above a familiar pit.

He dared not kill him--not quickly, not with Malak still on the planet. The death of such a prominent Force-user might be felt if snuffed out all at once.

But over time… if killed slowly….

Pity the man had been vaccinated against the rakghoul poison, because that would be a fitting end, but here, Davad had recalled, was a pit--part of an old sewer system now sealed to the new--and at least a kilometer deep. And at its bottom--

What the ‘ghouls did not infect, they generally ate.

XXX

_“This is… cruel,” Xaset objected. Again. She had been objecting for some time now, as Vik and Davad piloted the hover full of unconscious Mandalorians down the tunnel to the pit that Revan and Malak had found. “Please. It’s not too late. We could give them the vaccine! Or just kill them--”_

_“You’ve been outvoted,” Davad told her. “You and Vik.”_

_Next to him, Vik was silent, his disapproval just a whisper in the Force._

_“It’s supposed to be cruel,” Revan said flatly. “The Fett understands_ war. _He will_ not _understand this.”_ She _wore the mask now--they all wore their masks now. It had become easier to do what they must do anonymously. “We need to show him what we will do to his blooded warriors if he does not leave this world.”_

_The hole in front of them was a dark circle, perfectly round. Malak had said that it had no exit._

_It took some time to ferry the infected, unconscious Mando’ade within--more time than it should because Vik had trouble setting up the holo-cam._

_But in the end, the gamble had worked. The Fett Lin and his forces retreated from Taris._

_It seemed a great victory. Until the Mando’ade took Cathar next--_

XXX

“Mmmph!” Agare had woken up again. His eyes practically glowed with hate as he twisted in his bonds. The gash on his head was bleeding copiously. Davad had a strange desire to wipe the blood with his hand and taste it.

The electro-net that covered him tightened the more the man struggled. The neural disruptor was a cheap one (acquired from the Beks, of all places), and it would not hold him long. But it would not have to. There was no exit from that pit, and powerful as he was, Bandon Agare could not fly.

“Good-bye, Bandon,” Davad chuckled as he tossed the man into the pit. There was a splash as the body hit the underground lake below. And then a chitter of voices, that peculiar blood-curdling call the ‘ghouls used to summon their own--

“S’cuy!” he called out to the walking dead below. Rakghouls could last a long time without sustenance, but their hunger never faded. At the moment, Davad knew how they felt. “Haili cetare!”*

A familiar scent wafted in the air, mixed with Wookiee, and a definite Force presence--perhaps more than one. _Is that her?_ Davad sensed nothing of the woman he knew--this was quite different. This was sheer terror, roiling like a slow boil in the ether. The air stank of fear too.

He moved along the catwalk, past the pit, turning down the network of corridors that ran like capillaries, narrowing to the surface. The tunnels here were so close together, he almost turned down the wrong one, before he reasserted his Force weaves and wrapped himself in shadow, waiting for the prize to pass beneath him below--

**Agare still had his uses.**

“I disagreed, Master.”

Strangely, the old woman did not press the point. **You will expedite Revan and Bastila's departure.**

“No longer want me to bring them to you?”

 **Expedite their departure. They will come to me themselves.** She sounded so certain.

“You're a fickle mistress.” But he was used to it. “I could just take them both now--”

**No. You will not! They must not be aware of your presence. You will hide yourself from her--**

Footsteps tripped below him, and then the sound of voices.

Davad wrapped the shadows more tightly around himself, rendering his presence invisible to light and Force alike. But an uneasy growl told him that there were some things that could not be concealed--not to another hunter.

“What are you talking about, Big Z? There's nobody for kilos!” A child’s voice. That Twi’lek urchin. “Elias? You have the Force! Tell Zaalbar it's okay or you'd know, right? The Hunt-King isn't here!”

[“The Hunt-King isn't here,”] the Ithorian padawan clicked.

Another yowl from the Wookiee and the three began arguing.

But there was another conversation beneath their useless jabbering, one that Davad found far more intriguing….

Xxx

“Polla, I promise,” Padawan Shan murmured for the tenth time. Everything she said was a fracking murmur--or a whisper. “As soon as we rejoin the Jedi Fleet the masters will be able to answer all of your questions.”

“Oh, yeah?” Polla was getting a little tired of _Padawan_ Shan’s piety about the Jedi and how much they needed to find more of them immediately. “You think they know everything? The Jedi aren't so great. They pretty much _caused_ the last four wars.”

“The _Mando’ade_ caused the last three,” Riek broke in. Was he flirting? Everytime Polla tried to meet his eyes, the kid blushed.

Canderous chuckled. “It was an honor to fight in the two.” He and Carth had fallen into lockstep behind Polla and Bastila and Riek. The tramp of their boots in unison was strangely calming as well. “I was at Jaxos Cluster too, pilot.”

 _“Captain,”_ Carth corrected him. “And it wasn't _honor._ It was… bloody. Sents died.”

“Tens of thousands in that battle,” Canderous agreed. “But not us. Not then, and not today.” He paused. “You must have your own tales of glory.”

Elias, Zaalbar, and Mission were having a heated argument in a mix of Ithor, Shyriiwook, and Ryl. Together they were giving Polla a new fracking headache.

“There’s no blasted glory in a combat zone.” Carth sounded so furious that Polla turned around, walking backwards to keep an eye on him. His eyes met hers steadily and his mouth twitched. “One thing I admire about Deralian smugglers _\--they_ seem to get that.”

“Combat sounds dangerous,” Polla noted. “I don't mind a bit of excitement, but it's not worth killing myself.”

“That seems wise,” Bast _\--Padawan_ Shan chimed in. “One purpose of the Jedi Fleet is to keep _me_ away from the heat of battle.” Her voice crisped. “I do have hope this will be our last field mission for quite some time--but we will have to see what the masters say when we return to Dantooine.”

“You fight well for someone who eschews combat,” Riek told Polla.

Staring at Carth instead of where they were going meant she had to crane her neck awkwardly, just to see the boy blush again. “I’m an excellent shot. I won Tweener champion six times in a row--”

“She said three times before,” Mission noted, dropping the Ryl. Polla could see her eyes narrowing through the gap of Carth and Canderous's shoulders. “But I haven't seen her hit anything.”

“I’m an excellent shot,” Polla repeated. For a second she was staring at the back of her own head, the shaved topknot, the hair underneath growing in, still pale and--

_Hair doesn't grow in pale, it's not like eyes. Eyes can be red but they shouldn't be, when they're red you need to run--_

Polla heard her breath rush out and realized someone was holding her hand.

 _Peace._ It was Bastila. Her fingers were ice-cold. _Everything is fine._

 _What?_ Maybe Polla was losing her mind. “Sometimes I hear voices,” she said out loud, soft so the others wouldn't hear. “That’s… because of the head injury?”

“This isn’t the best time to worry about it.” The other woman squeezed her hand again. _Peace. Serenity._

“No.” She shook her head, lowering her voice to a whisper near the shorter woman’s ear. “You’re--is that you? Saying fracking peace all the time? Is that through the Force?”

“I don’t hear anything.” Mission had pushed her way through the pack to them. “Ya know, you could be crazy. Zaalbar thinks you are. He says your claws need cut.”

“Thanks.” _Fracking kids._

Bastila squeezed her hand again. “You are fine, Polla. Not--it is me. I… was one of the Jedi assigned to your recovery. It is possible that experience may have made you more… sensitive to some aspects of Jedi… training.”

“Sensitive? Is that why I hear you? You mean like in the Force? Force-sensitive?”

[“She's not supposed to have the Force,”] Elias interrupted them. This time he was speaking Bothan. Was he testing Polla or something? [“Are you saying she does?]

 _Not supposed to? Who died and made him the Jedi King? Frack these fracking kids with no boundaries and prenatural hearing._ Polla gritted her teeth. “Elias, do me one favor. If you're gonna talk about me like I'm not here, pick a language I can't understand.”

“---Althir? You have to admit that was glorious.” Behind them Canderous had begun telling war stories.

“I do not.” Carth sounded pissed.

“It would be quite difficult to find such a language,” Elias said seriously in Basic. “I have been trying, Polla Organa.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I'm sure that's not true.”

“We will need provisions,” Bastila interrupted. “Elias and I need to acquire more appropriate clothing. And… Polla… probably needs things as well.”

“What, those synthleather things you're both wearing aren’t Jedi standard? Carth’s coat looks good on Elias.” Polla pulled her hand away, quickening her step. Somehow, she was not at all surprised when the other woman matched the pace. “Look… I-I guess we got off to a rocky start, Bastila. I just fell out of an escape pod. But you… you had to be with those slavers a while. You've been through a lot.”

“Yes. I-I have.” There was a long silence. “That is kind of you to… notice.”

“I fracking _hate_ slavers,” Polla added. “Maybe instead of fracking around with the Sith, the Jedi should just kill them all.”

“Wanton slaughter rarely solves anything.” The other woman sounded light years away. “We are not Sith. We must not _become_ Sith.”

“My cousin Beya did.” Polla reached for her hand again, not sure what else to offer. It was strange, but she could feel the other woman’s fear--and something more. Something harder to define. “Beya Organa?” _Was it shame? Fracking hell, Padawan Shan! You're practically still a kid! Whatever it is you think you did--_

Bastila pulled her hand back and quickened her steps. _No._ “Like _Malak,”_ she said, a little fiercely. “And Revan.”

“Oh.” All she'd wanted to do was help. Grass Priests, the woman was pricklier than Carth. “You knew them, huh? Um… before?”

A jerk of that sharp chin. “Not… not very well.”

[“We all knew them,”] Elias broke in in Ithor. Abruptly, he switched again to an old dialect of Arkanian that sounded absurd coming from his fluted mouth. [“Padawan Shan, Master Ulgo said specifically we were never to introduce subjects which could trigger another fugue--]”

“Huh?” Maybe she'd gotten the Arkanian word wrong. “What's a trigger fugue?”

“Please.” Bastila shot a glare back toward the Ithorian. “Please cease talking.”

“Revan and Malak,” Carth muttered from behind them. “I met Malak once but they say Revan was the real mastermind. Ever since Malak’s been in charge, the Sith forces are chaos. Wanton slaughter’s all they do.”

“Well, they are winning!” Riek shrugged at Polla. “So it's working.”

They were coming to the end of the tunnel now. About ten meters ahead of them stretched a ladder, loosely propped there. Sunlight streamed through the opening above, and with it the smell of dust and what passed for fresh air on Taris.

“Finally!” Mission said, in Basic. “Why’d that sleemo Nord park so far away from the race in the first place?”

[“It does not matter,”] Zaalbar rumbled. [“My old employer is certainly dead, but I still smell the Hunt-King. The vehicle will help mask our scents in its walls. We shall lose him in the waste.”]

“Revan. Hah!” Canderous chuckled, gesturing to the ladder to let the Twi’lek kid (who was already pushing past him) go first. “You know, I saw her duel against the Fett Mandalore. That woman had a true gift with blades, even without the Force.”

“You were… there.” Bastila pressed her lips together so hard Polla practically felt it. “That must have been… quite a sight.”

“You said she cheated, buir,” Riek coughed. “When you told the tale before.”

[“Among barbarians, it may be more prudent not to mention the death magic.”]

“Revan was a woman?” Mission was halfway up the ladder when she glanced back. “Wow! What did she look like?”

“She wore a mask.” Canderous said. “But she was very strong. Glorious with the double blade.”

Their voices kept going, but Polla’s attention was strangely drawn to Bastila Shan again, pale and silent in the middle of them all, like a hessi surrounded by snakes.

“Didn’t you kill Revan?” she asked. “Isn’t that how the story goes?”

Those blue eyes met hers. “Yes,” the Hope of the Republic said softly. “That is how the story goes.”

Xxx

**_"Fall back to alpha code nine nine eight four pi three point five."_ **

_The Republic's way of saying, 'live to fight another day.'_

_Carth exhaled sharply and felt a sense of numb relief. Around him on the small bridge, his men cheered. Some of them were crying, but he didn't say anything. His own cheeks were wet. "Who is this?" he asked. The voice was unfamiliar._

**_"Jedi General Revan,"_ ** _the voice answered him._ **_" I'm on the_ ** **Leviathan** **_with Rear Admiral Karath. He sends his regards."_ **

_Carth punched in the new commands, transmitting low-beam to his other ships. The holomap in front of him spun, plotting their new trajectory. His wing of fighters pulled back and ran._

_"How bad is it out there?" It wasn't unusual, taking orders directly from the Jedi, but he'd never spoken to Revan herself. He'd heard of her—who hadn't? But he'd never been under her direct command._

_The voice seemed to hesitate before it answered him._ **_"You're the last ones."_ **

_\--Memory, Chapter 9_

 

_A/N_

_Thanks as always, ether for betaing this monster. Although I’d written a lot of it months ago, I was having trouble getting it into some kind of order--and the things I changed caused a lot of consistency headaches. If anything seems off, please let me know!_

_Ether, you may notice entire segments added, as per your suggestions--and a few new surprises! I blame you, but not for the typos. And I am borrowing Force weaves in the shadows as a term. Thanks for it!_

*Haili cetare -- Bon appetit (Davad to the rakghouls, in Mandalorian)

1lesup1--thanks for your kind words! Hope you enjoy this!! It is funnier than Memory, yeah. It’s fun to write, even when the Sith do go a bit dark.

As per standard: this is the version with typos that I’ve probably introduced. Eventually, a cleaner version will emerge from the wreckage. The Davad bits.. Especially, were recently expanded.

Song: “Awake My Soul,” Mumford and Sons

 


	11. We Don't Need Another Hero

**Oblivion**

**XXX**

_ The Deralian spun, twisting her double-bladed vibroblade to meet his counter with a clash of cortosis steel. Sparks flew from the impact. Her feet moved in a dance he knew only too well. Women were smaller and faster than men, and their patterns in the battle circle reflected this. What surprised Canderous was to see a barbarian who knew these steps. And yet, a part of him was pleased. _ _   
_ _   
_ Somewhere, the teachings of my people live on, even after we have passed from memory. Someone must have taught Polla Organa the old dance.   
_   
_ _ "Are there Mandalorians on Deralia?" he asked her, moving more slowly and solidly to meet her attack. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Huh?" _ _   
_ _   
_ _ They were in Davik Kang's estate, with her companion the pilot; in the training room off the guest suites. The pilot sat on the sidelines. The man swore he was a good pilot, and he was a good shot, but he was no match for them with blades—and he knew it. Out of the corner of his eye, Canderous noted the scowl on the man's face and the way his eyes never left her lithesome figure. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ She was attractive; there was no question. Her breasts heaved becomingly under the bodice of her jumpsuit. Her waist was narrow, and her hips flared beneath, tapering to muscular legs. She was more slender than any of his wives; but it was a slimness built for battle, not weakness. Her topknot flared in the air as she leaped towards him again, a grin on her face as their blades met one more time. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "You fight like one born to it," he said, wondering if she would understand. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "I trained with blasters and rifles and throwing knives since I was a kid," she answered, pausing. She wiped the sheen of sweat from her face with a sleeve. "All Deralians do, in case someone tries to invade us." _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Those things have their uses," Canderous said approvingly, "but it's the sword you wield like a true warrior." _ _   
_ _   
_ __ A puzzled frown crossed her face, and she stared down at the double-bladed vibroblade in her hands as if she'd never seen it before.

_ \--Memory, Chapter 18 _

**XXX**

**Chapter 11 / We Don’t Need Another Hero**

XXX

Malak watched Beya Organa walk away across the vast expanse of the  _ Leviathan _ officer’s shuttle bay--relief and expectation clear in every line of her body.

“Give Sheris my regards,” he boomed after her, adjusting the volume of his voder with the Force so that the words echoed through the room. “Tell her I will see her soon.”

Beya glanced back, face already a heart-shaped blur in the distance. She raised her hand once--that old gesture left from when they were knights--the half-wave, fingers flashing the symbol for victory.

_ Victory.  _ Laughter burbled in Malak’s ruined throat.  _ Beya is so easily bought with hope.  _ He had no doubt Sheris would find Organa’s weaknesses as exploitable as he did himself. And perhaps the gift of a friend would temper his lover’s jealousy for a woman who no longer existed.

“So many ships.” Vikor Tio's voice was light and careful. The coward pattered along at Malak’s side, as uncharacteristically pensive as he had been in the shuttle taking them away from the planet. 

“Just the right number,” Malak said back. The words boomed too loud, accompanied by a screech that grated on his so recently-appeased nerves and caused the short, goggled null in front of them to nearly jump from his skin. “Wouldn’t you think so, Nord?”

“They are… magnificent,” the lackspittle tried. Malak had to admire his effort to grovel. “The design. I have never seen--”

“Would you like to take pictures for the Senate?” Malak’s arm extended and slammed the pathetic waste of a man into the nearest wall. “Aren’t you  _ their _ spy?”

“Wait!” Tio objected. “We need his eyes! The recording--”

The man was right. And wrong as well.  _ We do not need the recording. I do not need to see her.  _

Malak took an even breath.  _ What will the recording show? A shell? A ghost?  _ He had seen a recording already. Those eyes, with all the light gone out.

_ My wife is dead. I have replaced her in every way that still matters. _

“Save Nord for later.” Malak gestured to two of his guards, signaling for them to keep the man in a cell until he commanded otherwise. At some point, he would, for Calo Nord was Genoharadan, and the utility of the Genoharadan was something Malak had learned in his cradle. 

Unlike most sentients in the galaxy, the Genoharadan were not driven by lust or avarice. And yet, for the sake of their gods they could always be bought.

Without Sheris’s healing touch, Malak’s jaw throbbed abominably, but he tried to take some amusement as they passed the open doors to the fighter bays and he saw Vik’s eyes widen in abrupt understanding at the hive of activity within.

Amusing, watching Vik’s reaction to the fighters prepping for battle. 

_ So many ships?  _ the Twi’lek had said.

_ All, _ in fact. 

Vik was not stupid, even if he sometimes played the fool. He would know what those ships meant.

“It takes some time.” Malak inclined his head toward the small man’s dome-like ear. “I’m sure you remember that from Telos?”

“I was on one of the clean-up squads,” the Ryloth native said quietly. “But yes. I do.”

Malak chuckled, ignoring the way the effort made his spine ache against the plates on his neck.

“All that show for Arkan…?” Tio was not stupid, even if he played the rake at times. “You incensed him to distract him. You sent him to die on Taris.” 

_ Yes.  _ Arkan hid his strength well… but not well enough. Perhaps on the Star Forge, where Malak’s power was at its strongest he might best Arkan--but here, Malak was somewhat mortal--

_ And here, someday he will challenge me.  _ While a part of Malak understood the way of the Sith well enough to accept that someday he would be replaced, another part of him rankled at the thought it could be by a man like the Onderonite. And another knew he could not be replaced yet. Not until they held Coruscant, and even then--

_ My chosen successor requires allies. Arkan will not follow what is mine.  _ “Would you like your own command ship, Vik? The _ Demon Moon, _ perhaps?”

The Twi’lek blinked. “I’d have to change the name. Demons are bad luck where I’m from.”

“For now, you’re to command the Tempest Squadron.”

The Twi’lek shot him a glance through wide yellow eyes. “An honor,” he said flatly. “Thank you, my lord.” 

_ Thank me again if you survive, _ Malak thought. The Tempest Squad had their orders too. If their new commander was anything less than enthusiastic with his carpet bombing… they would soon have a new commander and Malak would need to find another new commander for the  _ Moon _ .

_ Perhaps Bandon?  _ Malak frowned, checking his comm’s feed with the overlay build into his prosthetic jaw. 

Despite having been given orders to retreat from the planet, Bandon’s link still showed his presence somewhere upon--or beneath--its surface.  

XXX

It was Carth’s first time visiting a crime lord’s lair. Also--hopefully--his last.

Davik Kang’s estate was a vast compound set in the middle of what appeared to be an abandoned shopping complex on a lower-level plat. The platform itself had to be centuries old, judging by the cracked mortar and duracrete; and long-abandoned by Tarisians who'd built above it. Their transport passed through two sets of automated gates and then pulled up into an octagonal courtyard, separated from the compound’s interior by a set of salvaged blast doors and a turret array.

“Guest quarters are here,” Canderous Ordo explained brusquely. “Davik doesn’t let anyone into his main estate unescorted til their background checks come in.” His eyes narrowed. “I figure the Deralian’s the only one of you who could pass without pinging off too many alarms. Being on the Lists is fine--Taris’s Most Wanted just means you're popular. But being Republic heroes…” he scoffed, looking at Bastila and Carth. “Davik might turn you two in just out of patriotic duty.”

“To the  _ Sith?” _ Later, Carth was ashamed of himself for taking the man’s bait, but at the time, he spoke before he thought. 

“Tarisian authorities. Amounts to the same thing.” Canderous shrugged. “Any way you shake it, he’s halfway across the planet meeting with investors this afternoon, so we’ve got time to kill. Make yourselves at home.” He stretched, and Carth could swear he heard the joints in the man’s arms pop. “I’m gonna work out, have a massage. The spa’s impressive, if you’re into that sort of thing.” 

“Polla and I will avail ourselves of its facilities--” Bastila began, only to be interrupted by the smuggler.

“--I could use a workout.” The Deralian was looking anywhere  _ but  _ in the direction of the Jedi, Carth noticed, which was why it was hard to interpret what her green-eyed stare meant when it settled on him. 

“Geez, Polla,” Mission laughed. “We just ran like fifty kilometers--”

The Wookiee growled something that sounded like an objection, shaking his head.

“Fine, Big Z! We just ran like five kilometers then! Long enough!”

_ “You _ go with Bastila, Mission,” Polla waved an absent-minded hand in the girl’s direction. Her smile had lit upon the older Mandalorian now with an intensity that made Carth grit his teeth. “I need to work up a sweat.”

“Polla. We should stay together--” the Jedi began again, so faintly that Carth turned to her. 

Padawan Bastila Shan looked younger in that ridiculous synthleather outfit than she had in robes aboard the  _ Spire.  _ Younger--and exhausted. Next to her, the Ithorian was drooping his head-stalk as well. The Ithorian was tinged a pale yellow, and the smudges under Bastila’s blue eyes spoke of bone-deep weariness. Not for the first time, Carth wondered what kind of an ordeal the two Jedi had already been through.  _ Polla and I were free at least. These two are just kids. And they were held captive for weeks! _

[“I will watch Scout Organa,”] Padawan Elias chirped in Southern Althirian. [“Bastila--you… you should... recover….”]

“Don’t watch anything on  _ my _ account,” Polla broke in. “Or anyone.” Her eyes narrowed, darting back to Carth and a lazy smile crept across her face. “Unless you like to watch, Captain Obvious?”

_ Bastila doesn’t want to leave Polla alone.  _ Carth understood that impulse more than he understood the mess of what had happened back at the swoop track: Dark Jedi, gang members--and how the hell the woman in front of him had pulled off the win. How the hell she'd brought them all here, under the dubious shelter of two Mandalorian mercenaries, and a crime boss even the mercenaries didn't trust.

“Sure,” he muttered back, keeping his gaze locked on those green eyes. “Watching you’s not a hardship.”

“Good.” Polla looked at Bastila again and raised an eyebrow. “We good, Jedi Shan?”

There was an awkward silence, which went on longer than Carth expected before the Jedi blinked and turned away. “Of course. Captain Onasi and Scout Organa will join the rest of us later in our… are we to have private rooms?”

“Private? I don’t know what you mean,” Riek frowned. “But I will show everyone the spa and Canderous will show everyone the training armory.”

“Armory?” Polla looked interested. Of  _ course _ she did.

XXX

“You called for me, sir?” Infantry Sergeant Sarna Devry stood in the door of Lieutenant Idras’s office, wondering if she was supposed to salute a woman she technically did not report to... after being sent an encoded message through a command channel that technically did not exist.

“Close the door,” Lieutenant Idras told her. “And take a seat.”

“Yes, sir.” Sarna did as asked, smiling politely at her fellow agent. For, despite their serving different branches of Darth Malak’s army, they were sisters of a sort--both of them sworn servants of Darth Beya Organa.

“You’re being recalled,” the dark-haired lieutenant told her bluntly. “Ship-board assignment to the  _ Demon Moon.”  _

“But I'm in planetary requisitions!” More than that, this was  _ her  _ planet. Sarna had been recruited from Taris, trained on Taris, put up with all of the robes’s crazy because she loved Taris. 

Idras shrugged. “I've been reassigned there as well.” She checked her chron. “Shuttle transport’s filling up now. Your name’s on the list, but I'd go to the spaceport immediately if you want a seat.”

“This is an official order?” Not that it would matter--disobeying Lord Organa was unthinkable, and yet-- “Lord Organa assigned us both to Lord  _ Arkan’s  _ command?” 

“The  _ Moon’s  _ personnel officers have been advised.” Idras neatly did not answer the question, but she tapped her chron rather pointedly. “I have thirty more conversations just like this to make in the next four hours, Sergeant Devry--and I'm still tracking everyone down--so if that is all--”

“Yes, sir.”  _ Thirty? That must be most of Beya’s people. What assignment could possibly require all of us?” _

“Ahem.” Idras motioned to the door. “If I were you, I'd go to the spaceport, now, Sergeant. I truly would.”

Sarna nodded and turned, walking away, still pondering the implications--

_ Beya is pulling her people off Taris. Some of us have been embedded here for years. Either there's something really big--bigger than that Republic captain running around with a Sheris Loran copy--or-- _

_ Or, what? _

_ Or something's going to happen to the planet. _

XXX

Polla and Ordo quickly graduated from lifting weighted balls to fighting with practice vibroblades. Sparks flew when their blades clashed. 

_ Maybe Polla just wants to be alone with the Mandalorian. Maybe you're the third wheel here, Onasi. Maybe you should leave.  _ Maybe. But if the war had taught Carth anything, it was not to trust Mandalorians.

_ And she’s beautiful.  _ Carth had never been one to obsess about swords and close-range combat--not when he could drop most targets with a good blaster from any distance--but he had to admit, grudgingly, that the way the two of them fought right now was beautiful. Or, at least,  _ she _ was. 

The Mandalorian was a solid mass of muscle and grizzled arms--the type who'd look more at home on a battlefield than a dueling ring, but he was also faster than a man his age had any right to be. Again and again, he hurled himself forward, thrusting his blade with swift chops that seemed designed to hammer through any defense.

Again and again, Polla’s blade met his and did not falter. 

The Mandalorian was fast. But not as quick as the Deralian. Polla spun, slashing her blade out in a circle, finally forcing the larger man to retreat. She had a determined look on her face that was new--a stubborn line on her forehead between her brows as if this fight--or something else--was bugging her. 

_ She’s upset but she fights like she’s dancing. _ Not the first time Carth had noticed. __   
  
"Are there Mandalorians on Deralia?" Ordo asked, breaking off their spar by stepping back and raising his sword in a salute.

"Huh?” Polla frowned, and the man tried to take the opportunity to lunge forward, only to have his down-cut be flipped back carelessly, almost lazily, as she circled left. She was wearing that battered vest she’d had on when Carth had pulled her out of the  _ Spire, _ under a half-zipped jumpsuit and a pair of loose trousers. She'd tossed off her shoes. Her feet were delicate and high-arched, and Carth watched the lean line of her legs through the cloth, as she kicked out with one, connecting with Ordo’s side. 

The man grunted approvingly as his body absorbed the hit. "You fight like one born to it.”   
  
"I trained with blasters and rifles and throwing knives since I was a kid." Polla wiped her face with her arm. Her cheeks were flushed. The tail of hair on her head bobbed. "All Deralians do, in case someone tries to invade us."   
  
"Those things have their uses, but it's the sword you wield like a true warrior." 

She frowned, staring down at her training blade. "I guess I'm talented. Are all Mandalorians so… so—polite?" 

_ No, _ Carth thought blackly.  _ Most are scum. So's this one, except he's the scum we need right now. _ The man had said he'd get them a ship. They needed the codes to get off the planet--or so Ordo had said. Maybe  _ this  _ was his real reason for stalling, to steal a bout with a beautiful Deralian.   
  
"Perhaps you'd like to join me in the massage room?" Ordo added, obviously pushing his luck. "Davik has a good supply of oils and your muscles must be stiff. You know, my people have made an art of massage—as well as fighting."

Carth tried to think of an excuse to leave, then wondered if they'd even notice if he did, what with the way Ordo was leering at Polla.   
  
"Huh?" 

Carth was growing to hate that quizzical look: brows raised, the sideways smirk, even in profile. But then, Polla’s head turned and she was staring at Carth, not Ordo. And as she saw him look back, the smirk widened until it wasn’t one anymore. Just a smile now. Cool and direct. A beautiful madwoman. Smiling at him. 

_ Legs, _ he thought stupidly. Something about her level stare directed at him made all the blood leave this head. There was no artifice in her look, nothing but her in those eyes. A direct invitation that he understood, even if that damnable woman herself was incomprehensible. 

_ I don't know what happened back there on that swoop track. I don't know why you ran away after, Polla Organa, or why these Mandalorians took us in, or why you're still with us at all, or what's the thing you haven't told me that explains everything... but, you-- _

“You… looked good there,” he mumbled as if they were twelve and he was gonna tie her braids to her desk’s receiver during astrophysics.

“Thanks.” Polla sheathed her vibrosword across her back, turning back to the Mandalorian. "Are you… are you hitting on me, Canderous Ordo?"   
  
"Your choice," the man shrugged like he could care less. For some reason, that pissed Carth off too--that the man didn't seem to care.

_ I care,  _ he thought, even though it was impossible to say out loud.   
  
"Uh--” Polla looked uncertain. Her face flushed.

Carth had had enough of this--enough of that murdering asshole putting her on the spot. He got up and walked over. "Is Ordo bothering you, Polla?" Carth should keep his damn mouth shut, but he couldn't help it. The way she looked at him--

He knew that look. He knew what it meant in his bones, just like he knew she was trouble personified.   
  
"It's none of your business,  _ Republic.”  _ The Mandalorian tried to make the word an insult, but for Carth, it was a badge of honor. 

One of Polla's eyebrows arched.   
  
Carth looked past her, toward the merc. "You say that like it's an insult, Mandalorian.”

“Hah,” the man grunted, and propped his training saber against the wall.

Polla snorted. "We were just practicing, Carth! Not that I have to explain that—or anything to you, you Gamorrean pigman." The tip of her nose turned pink when she was embarrassed or angry. He’d noticed that before.

"Don't get frisky with the help, beautiful. Mercs can't be trusted. Especially Mandalorians."

“You trusted me to bring you  _ here,” _ Canderous pointed out.   
  
Polla had the good sense to ignore the man. The smile on her lips was teasing, more than a little flirtatious. "Frisky?”   
  
“Frisky.” Carth grinned back at her. “I think you’re getting frisky.”   
  
“I'll show you frisky, you hairless Wookiee!" Polla reached behind her back and drew her sword again.   
  
_ You don't have to stab Ordo for me-- _ Carth didn't have a chance to finish the thought because the next thing he knew, that sword’s point was heavy and cold on his skin, right below his eye.

Carth felt himself freeze.  _ You knew she was nuts. _ "Uh… what are you doing, gorgeous?"   
  
"Marking her claim,” the Mandalorian said. His voice was gruff. “I'll be going now," he added.   
  
Carth was still staring at the Deralian, a thousand questions stuck in his head. She'd traced a curved line across his cheek with the sparring blade’s dull point. Then she'd pulled it back, but was still standing there, staring back at him.

_ Claim?  _ “So…” Carth began finally. “Y-you’re pretty good with that thing.”

She blinked. “I--yeah.” As if his words had broken a spell, Polla put the practice blade back on the wall and paced to the window overlooking the garden. To Carth’s eye, half the plants looked artificial. “Summer camp when I was fifteen.”

“Right.”  _ Summer camp? And I'm the son of Nomi Sunrider and a Gamorrean.  _ “What'd Ordo mean, 'your claim?’ Claim to what?”

“I--” she laughed, a sound as bright and fake as those plants. “Guess he meant you're taken, Flyboy. Must be flattering, having everyone going after the married man.”

_ Married. Morgana.  _ The rush of automatic guilt came in like a dead tide. Carth had to force himself to sound just as breezy. “Sure. Ordo’s quite a catch. Surprised you're willing to take a pass.”

“I'm saving myself,” Polla snapped. “Figure I deserve someone who doesn’t act like a sleemo when I talk to another man.”

“Good luck with that.” He gritted his teeth. 

“Thanks.” Polla tossed her head and her topknot fell over one unblinking eye. “Canderous promised me an intro to Kang. Guess I’ll clean up and get ready to meet the big man.”

“Fine. I'll check in with Bastila.” Carth didn't pause--he just left.

Xxx

When you've seen one Exchange Boss’s massive estate, you've seen them all.

_ Perhaps, but be careful, _ the voice in her head whispered.  _ Overconfidence here could doom us all. Remember, you represent the Republic-- _

Polla bit down on her cheek, hard enough that she tasted salt.  _ Shut up! _

The inner monologue had dimmed to nothing when she was fighting--as if her own mind had eclipsed it, but now the nagging voice of her conscience was back. Except… 

Except it wasn’t her conscience at all. Was it?

_ I’ll deal with _ **_you_ ** _ later,  _ she thought darkly at Jedi Shan, or her mind’s crazy hallucination that it was talking to Bastila Shan.  _ Don’t frack this up for me! _

_ Peace,  _ the hallucination thought back, while another thought rose up from the depths, so starkly different it might have belonged to another person.  _ Peace will come if you bring the crimelord to heel quickly. _

_ Huh?  _ Polla was getting tired of this, maybe more so now that she’d figured out the source.  _ Shut up! _

The voice retreated, replaced by more familiar thoughts, the ones she knew were hers.  _ Bet this sleemo’s got a dick the size of a twig. Anyone with this much security and so few guards is either broke or overcompensating for something.  _

Polla had seen the palace belonging to the late and not-lamented Ghardal on Corellia--that time the man’s untimely death had led to her and Therion not getting paid. As a result, she didn't blink at all of the gold, and the tatt, and the firesilk draperies, and cast-marble columns Davik Kang’s decorator had put everywhere in the halls of his “estate,” as he called it.

But it had been funny to see Carth twitch when Canderous sparred with her--and practically sulk when Canderous had explained that Polla had to go meet Davik Kang alone while the rest of them chilled their jets. They’d left Carth with the two Jedi and Riek. Polla hoped that wherever Mission and Zaalbar had scarpered, the Wookiee was keeping the kid in line.

_ Mission's probably robbing the crime boss blind,  _ she thought, a little fondly. Kid was a brat, but she meant well--at least as far as they were concerned. Zaalbar had a lot more sense. Polla thought he'd keep the Twi’lek from any  _ real  _ trouble.

Canderous sure hadn't given her much to go by--escorting Polla to an elaborately-carved wooden door. On a planet with no trees that door must have been worth something. “You're not coming in?” she asked him.

“Oh, I’ll have your back, but Kang likes to do most of the talking.” The Mandalorian paused. “It is your business if you kill him--but he's the man who has the Imperial codes to get us through the Sith blockade. We’ll need those.” His voice was so deadpan she couldn't tell if he was joking. 

“How the frack am I supposed to get the codes?” Did he expect her to torture the man? Charm him? Seduce? 

Canderous shrugged. “I had another plan--break into the Sith base and steal the codes... if you'd rather do that.”

“Hah, hah.” She paused. His face looked serious. “You're kidding, right?”

The Mandalorian shrugged. “Might work with the robes as a back-up.”

“You mean the Jedi.”

“They are fierce warriors, especially for pacifists.” He chuckled, as if  _ that  _ was a joke.

“Hah, hah,” Polla repeated, just to be polite.

“Gain Davik’s confidence, and keep him distracted. The Twi’lek kid says she and the Wookiee can hack into his systems… see how it goes. Let's get you full access to the grounds, through his security checks… then work it from there.” 

“When did you guys even talk about this?”

“On the hauler when you and Republic were arguing over who got to drive.” 

“Oh.” She'd let Flyboy win that one, watching his profile when he didn't seem to be looking, and trying not to think about why she suddenly had eyes in the back of her head telling her Bastila Shan was staring at her skull. “Right. Guess we… we got carried away.”

“He seems a capable man.” Ordo’s voice was neutral. Maybe that was a compliment.

“Uh, thanks,” Polla said automatically, then kicked herself.  _ He’s capable, but he’s not mine. What the frack am I thanking this one for? _

The door apexed open and she stepped inside, trailed by the Mandalorian. Davik’s inner sanctum was purple, walls lined with a cheap grade of dyed eridu and pink synthskin. Polla had seen brothels on Zeltros (well, she’d seen the one) that had better taste.

Davik Kang himself was muscled and squat, a few centimeters shorter than she was. Exchange tattoos spiraled across his arms, and a red star was inked on his forehead like he was some kind of Balmorran badass. Two scantily-clad Twi’leks, one male and one female, hovered behind him. 

When she and Canderous stepped in, the Twi’leks smiled politely, but the gangster froze with the ghost of something that could have been fear on his face before he recovered again, spreading on a smile so dank it could have been oiled. He clapped his hands twice and the Twi’leks backed away, exiting through a panel in the back wall that had looked just like the rest of the wall a moment ago.  _ Bet he’s got some good stuff stashed back there. _

“I’m Davik Kang.” The burly black-haired man stepped forward and extended his hand, picking up Polla’s and kissing her fingers lightly, those eyes never leaving her face. His lips brushed her knuckles in a way that would have made her punch him if there hadn’t been so much at stake. “And  _ you  _ must be…?”

“Your new friend,” she murmured, trying not to lay it on too thick.

“And here… I was going to say Revan. Dark Lord of the Sith.”

“That’s right,” Polla said, trying not to snort because dark lords probably didn’t do that and she was supposed to play nice. “I’m the Dark Lord of the Sith and I want to fly ships for you, Davik Kang. This is the beginning of our beautiful friendship.”

“Hah!” The man chuckled, glancing at Canderous. “Exquisite! Where’d you find her?  _ Yummy Melons?” _

“No.” The word came out as a low growl as if something about yummy melons pissed the Mandalorian off. “She’s one of the mercs who took out the Black Vulkar base. Was looking for an introduction.”

“She flies ships too?” Davik Kang’s eyebrows looked like two catapills above his red-rimmed eyes. 

_ Spice, _ Polla thought, _ or I’m really a fracking dark lord of the Sith.  _ “Flying ships is my thing,” she drawled. “Taking out swoop gangs is more like... a hobby.”

“Oh!” the Exchange boss exclaimed again. He snapped his fingers. “Wait! I got it! You’re that bint who took out Dead-Eye Duncan! You’re in the top three!” He tilted his head. “Didn’t see it in the vid as much, but in person… man, you gotta tell me. Are you an actress? What's with the hair?”

“If I say yes, I'm an actress, can I fly ships for you?” She batted her lashes, even though the sleemo was gross. “I have references--”

“Oh, yeah you do,” the man murmured. 

[“I apologize for his rudeness,”] Canderous turned his head to Polla.

[“It’s fine,”] Polla shrugged. She’d been wracking her brains how to spin this into a paying job instead of a ship heist as it was, but now talking to this creep was making a ship-heisting sound like the better plan. “Canderous here says you need to run a background check, Mister Kang?”

“Just the health check for you, sweets.” Davik winked. “That’s Mandalorian, right? You know it too?”

“I know a lot of languages.” Polla lifted her chin, staring him dead in the eye. “I know languages, I fly ships, and I’m a crack shot. So cut the drooling and give me a fracking job.” 

“Don’t usually hire Human women for the muscle,” the sexist worm said. “No offense.” 

“Now why would I be offended when I could just kick your ass?” She fluttered her lashes again. Sweetly. 

“Is that a threat or a promise?” 

Polla felt, more than saw, Canderous stiffen beside her. But the man was smart enough to keep quiet. 

“You want me to prove my skills?” She shrugged. “I get that. Give me your ship and I will.”

“Not that easy, sweets. Defense grid’s taking down everything that flies these days. I admit I’m working on a workaround, but in the meantime… I’d love to see you fight. Ever heard of a babe named Ice?”

“Like in a drink?”  _ What an asshole. _ “No.”

“Well, I own this bar…” Davik gave Polla that slow, greedy smile she’d been getting from losers like him ever since she’d first got her smuggler’s license and left home. “And it has a dueling ring.” He winked. “So if you want to show me what you can do we’re gold… but I gotta warn you, Ice is no Deadeye Duncan. She’s the real deal.” 

“It’s an extra... three thousand if I fight her in my skivs,” Polla told him. “Just so we’re clear.”

“Of course, of course!” The crime boss waved at the door. “But you’ll wear more for our meal, I hope. I’ll send some gowns to your quarters. Pick what you like! If you’re good, I won’t even take it out of your salary.”

Xxx

“Captain…?” Bastila coughed to get his attention because Captain Carth Onasi was still staring at the door that Polla Organa and the Mandalorian had walked out of more than twenty minutes previous. 

The three of them had returned from the practice rooms and performed their personal ablutions in the Exchange den’s wickedly sybaritic spa quickly and separately, before the Mandalorian ushered Polla Organa away, leaving Bastila with a disjointed narrative of events glimpsed through the other woman’s eyes.

“Yes?” Carth turned around abruptly, brows knit in a scowl as Master Trask used to say.

“We... have some time,” she ventured. “I know you and Scout Organa have been through a great deal. I was wondering if now wouldn't be ideal for our debriefing.”

The Wookiee and the Twi’lek child had returned from their exploration and both fallen asleep in a corner, the girl’s head pillowed on the Wookiee’s furry arm. Elias was sitting cross-legged-legged next to them, his orbs wide, but thankfully silent--as if he'd finally decided to believe what Bastila had told him about silence being a Jedi virtue.

“Sure, but…” The soldier gestured toward the door. “You sure we shouldn’t… help those two with Davik?”

“My buir thinks you're both too well-known to introduce to Davik,” the Mandalorian boy interrupted. He'd taken up what looked like a defensive position next to the door. “He said I was to keep you here.”

“That so?” Carth scoffed, but his expression was serious. “I dunno, kid. There's one of you, and--”

“Carth!” Bastila needed to regain command of this extremely flawed mission quickly. “There is wisdom in the Mandalorian's words.” A phrase she had never expected to say about any Mandalorian. “You and I would only draw attention to… their efforts. We are safer here.”

“Elias could have gone with her--”

“Davik only hires Humans and Gamorreans,” Riek interrupted. “And Polla is very capable. If you have questions about her leadership you should tell her directly, not gossip like children.”

“Wait. Leadership?” Carth was showing every indication of losing his temper.

Bastila stepped in quickly, trying to soothe. She didn't like this any more than he did, but what alternative did they have?

“Tell me what has happened to you thus far, Carth,” Bastila urged him--to distract him as well as to discover. “Obviously you and Scout Organa have had some experiences on this planet.”

“She makes friends wherever she goes,” Carth muttered. “Street urchins, Mandalorians, Sith. There’s something about her. I don't understand it myself.” His eyes narrowed. “She was pretty confused when we landed too. Said something about a head injury before?”

Bastila swallowed back the feeling of impending doom.  _ Sith? She made friends with Sith? She would be recognized here. Of course, she would be. _ “Yes,” she managed. “Polla Organa suffered severe head trauma. We Jedi were called in to advise on how to heal her. Anything she said that might seem a bit odd could be attributed to that.”

“It seemed a bit  _ odd  _ when her cousin the Sith commed and asked for her help,” Carth snapped. “Even  _ odder _ when I found her again, with another Sith hanging on her arm. That Twi’lek guy--”

“Vikor Tio.”  _ Her cousin. Knight Beya Organa?  _ Bastila could not stop to wonder, not when their best recourse was to flee this planet as quickly as possible. She tried to take a soothing breath, feeling it strangle in her throat, buffeted by a barrage of Polla’s idle speculations about the size (or lack) of Davik Kang’s penis. At least the meeting with him had gone well--taken hardly any time at all. Now the woman’s thoughts were consumed with her schedule to fight--

_ Fight? No. You must not. Violence is not the answer-- _

_ Sniveling fool!  _ The thought lashed back coldly, welling from the place beneath them both. 

Bastila took another breath to steady herself.  _ Peace, _ she thought again.

“You  _ know  _ him?” Carth sounded incredulous. “You knew that Sith? The Tio guy?”

“Of course.” Bastila struggled for composure. “Or, rather… I knew the man he was. We both spent time training in the same enclave. He was much older than I--”

“One of the Jedi who followed Revan and Malak.” Carth got up, pacing restlessly to the small window overlooking the courtyard. “Right? Why didn't you?”

“What? Why didn’t I--what?” Bastila was too busy sorting through her errant thoughts--interspersed with flashes from the smuggler’s mind--flashes that seemed to all be about the credit value of blaster rifles--

Xxx

_ “Your weapon selection was very generous. It’s impressive that a woman of your size can carry that much weight.” _

Is he still hitting on me? Is this Mandie foreplay? Come to my armory and pick a bunch of weapons?

_ “I’m not that short. Hey, are you married, Canderous Ordo?” _

_ “Yes.” _

Asshole--what is it with me and married men lately? It's like I've got some kind of Zeltron juice attracting them--

_ “Oh. What about that Byss number over there by the wall?” _

_ “The heavy assault cannon?”  _

_ “No, the one next to it--isn't that Byss? It's got the marker bores, even if the filing’s scored off-- _

_ “You have a good eye--” _

_ Xxx _

“Jedi Shan? Bastila?” 

Bastila blinked. “Just Bastila,” she corrected automatically, half of her mind still staring at a Byss rifle.

Carth frowned. “You… you sorta went blank there. Like you weren't there.”

“I’m sorry, Captain Onasi, I was a bit distracted.”

“Just Carth.” His flash of a grin was disarming. It reminded Bastila of her own girlhood when she and Meetra had been easily disarmed by such charming smiles--mostly given by men who were now damned or dead. “Seems like we both need to get used to that.”

“Yes.” Bastila blinked, edging the smuggler’s meaningless prattle back to the edge of her thoughts. Without Master Trask and the others reinforcing the barriers between them, the bond yawned wide open. At least most of the woman’s thoughts were inane and benign. “I'm sorry, Carth, you were saying…?”

“So many Jedi followed Revan and Malak to war. Why didn't you?”

_ Revan didn't want me.  _ But that was not something Bastila would voice aloud. “I was younger than they were,” she replied instead. “Still a padawan. The Council needed my gift and I chose to follow my master. Master Trask Ulgo. H-he died. On the  _ Endar Spire.” _

“I'm sorry.” Carth looked abashed, which had the effect of halting his interrogation, and so Bastila was not sorry at all.

“I need some time to… recover myself,” she proposed. “Perhaps we will speak again, later?”

“Of course.” He grimaced. “Damnit, I-I’m sorry. You’ve been through so much, I--is there anything you need?”

_ Peace. A Jedi Master. A staff of ten knights to keep the Deralian from slipping into fugue.  _ “No,” Bastila lied and took a breath and closed her eyes.

XXX

“I apologize for Davik’s rudeness,” Canderous told Polla as they walked back toward the guest quarters. She had handled Kang with a grace born from the women’s tents, but his behavior was still unconscionable. 

“He's coreslime. Lotta of Exchange scum just like him.” Polla shrugged. “You get used to it.” She tilted her head, smiling slightly. “Now I feel a lot less guilty about our plan to steal his ship.” 

“Still, you should not have to hear such osik from his gob.” He switched to Mandalorian because it was easier. [“When we find ourselves among outlanders we ignore their insults, or show them the taste of our guns. You should duel Ice with a blade, not a blaster. She is not a joke like Deadeye Duncan.”]

“I'm better with a blaster--” but her voice had lost its swagger.

If that were so, she would be a formidable foe indeed, but her words reminded Canderous of Riek’s--more grounded in a child’s bravado than tactical skill. [“His words were osik, but the test is real. I’ll take you to the armory. Pick what guns you like for the fight, but pick a blade too.”]

“I seem to keep losing weapons,” she muttered.

[“The garbage used by the gangs is not worth keeping.”] He had a blade in mind for her. The pommel was smaller as if fashioned for a woman’s hand. It was not a sword from home, but it would do. The choice would be hers, of course, but still, Canderous anticipated the moment of her choosing. A true thing, when a warrior found their mate. A time worth keeping.

_ She reminds you of home.  _ Comforting to think that some of the spirit of his people had survived, but it was not his place to ask more.

“Thanks.” Polla’s eyes met his. “I-I wasn't expecting a Mandalorian to be so nice.”

“Don't insult me.” But he laughed.  _ Careful. Between this one and the Twi’lek and Riek--I could acquire too many strays.  _

They walked the rest of the way to the armory in companionable silence.

To Canderous's surprise (and slight disappointment) the smuggler selected a Mandalorian sniping rifle, two Aratech blasters, a small hold out with a wrist holster, and a heavy cannon that was nearly as tall as she was that looked to be Republic salvage from the old invasion.

“A blade,” he reminded her, although he did not want to interfere with her will.

“Give me a sec.” Polla shouldered the heavy armory impressively, strapping it all to her unarmored form with cool efficiency, but he did not see how it could be practical for dueling.

She paced the line of vibroblades, pausing at the one with the jeweled hilt, meant for some ceremonial osik more than a true battle. “Think this is valuable?”

“It is trash,” he told her truthfully. 

Polla picked it up anyway and tried to execute a simple parry--the curious expression on her face turning quickly to disgust. “Ugh. No. You're right.”

Nonetheless, it went into the scabbard she'd stopped to her back. “Suvam will give us something for it,” she said. “Sixty-forty split, okay?”

“Suvam?”

“Friend of mine,” she waved a hand vaguely. “Bet that sleemo boss of yours has heard of him.” 

“Any other blades you like?” He paused, because she was staring at a silver cylinder hung under a pane of glass, looking confused as if she wasn't sure what it was.

“Lightsaber,” he told her. “A dar'jett weapon. You are right. We should collect it for one of the jett’ai to use. Plasma-powered, but the interior runs on magic--”

“Or the Force, right?” Her hand hovered over the glass as if she wasn't sure how to open the mechanism of the locked case.

Canderous stepped in and did it for her. “Like I said, magic. When fighting against a 'jett your best weapon is the element of surprise. Then, range. That's when you need a good disruptor--like the one you've chosen already. Melee is quite different--you need stims to match their strength and speed and a cortosis blade to withstand their 'saber’s blows.”

Polla picked up the cylinder hesitantly, rolling it in her hand. “How does it turn on?”

“Magic.” He shrugged. “Some have switches, but I believe that one can only be activated with the dar’jett magic.”

“We’ll give it to Elias,” she decided “He's the nice one.” Her hand twisted the hilt around in a circle absently as she continued to pace the aisle. “That the only Jedi magic sword?”

“They're fairly rare,” he drawled. “But I took that one off a robe myself.” One of the ones from the crashed Republic ship. Perhaps best not to mention that part--she might tell that twitchy pilot.

“Right…” her free hand trailed the hilts hanging along the wall, before settling on a brutish double-bladed thing that was nearly as tall as she was. 

“Not cortosis,” he pointed out.

“I'm not gonna fight Jedi, right? Or Sith?” She shoved the lightsaber in a pocket of her vest And picked it up the Gamorrean ack-leeth, hefting the weight with an assurance that he approved of. “This is flash. It’ll look good in the ring.”

Canderous inwardly winced. A woman trained by clan dueling for credits was barbarous enough. But an unnecessary spectacle-- “Get a cortosis one too,” he urged. “With Bastila Shan with us, we may see more Sith before we win the day.”

There was still the matter of the codes to get through Taris airspace--codes that changed weekly and were issued from the governor’s office atop the Imperial Base--what had once been the Taris Capital. Davik had bragged that he had connections with access, but Riek and Canderous were still trying to trace them. 

“If we see more Sith I'm gonna fracking run,” Polla muttered. “Like a sane person.”

“Hah!” Canderous chuckled. She had a warrior’s sense of humor.

Xxx

_ Peace,  _ Bastila thought, keeping her eyes closed.  _ Serenity.  _

After her meeting with Captain Onasi in which nothing was decided (during which time the smuggler’s inane chatter became even more difficult to ignore), Carth had taken Elias and Zaalbar and retired to the adjourning suite next door. Separation by gender was a logical social division on many worlds, and Bastila tried to think it was that--and not that Carth had decided to interrogate Elias without her.

Mission had woken up shortly after their departure and left for the other room too. Bastila continued to reassure herself it could not have been  _ her  _ fault for driving the others away.

And Polla Organa’s thoughts had finally subsided to a dull murmur, which was easily ignored. The smuggler was pleased about something--Bastila didn't want to know more than that--any more than she wanted to think about what the woman had said, echoing Revan’s own words--

_ I must only think of her as Polla. She is only Polla. _

A confident brashness, a carelessness--it all reminded Bastila of the friend she’d made aboard the  _ Ascendant _ . 

_ She is more like Polla than she was before. You said Malak’s name to her and she did not flinch. A month ago, that would have set her back weeks, sent her into catatonia, or worse--raving-- _

The woman who had come with Captain Onasi to their rescue had grown from the fragile shell Bastila had come to expect. She seemed much more vital than the hollow ghost who had walked the halls of the  _ Endar Spire,  _ shadowed by Master Trask--much more like the  _ real  _ Polla Organa.

Still, it had been utter madness for Bastila to mention Malak’s name while they were fleeing the Dark Lord himself--but some part of Bastila--perhaps the part who envied the sheer heedlessness of the smuggler--had wanted to take the risk, pull the flip-card, as Polla would have said. Or, even, with a crueler, darker impulse--that woman had wanted to see  _ Revan _ undone, reduced to a gibbering wreck upon the floor--

_ Perhaps I wanted to see her fail. For all she did to me.  _

_ A Jedi is not petty. A Jedi rises above these things. _

_ On the  _ Spire,  _ mentioning Malak had been enough to reduce the woman to a babbling wreck. But in the hall, she barely blinked. She. Polla. I must remember to always think of her as Polla-- _

The door slid open, and Bastila nearly screamed at the sight of the Deralian wearing more weapons than most assault troopers, all strapped everywhere to her slender frame.

“What?” the woman asked. “Elias said we should bunk together. There aren't enough rooms.” Her mouth twitched into a smirk. “Mandalorians apparently think 'unmarried women’ should room together too--unless they're taking lovers, and then they're supposed to take them to  _ their  _ rooms.” She snorted. “Just so we’re clear, if you're interested in any of the men, I’ll go spar or something while you frack. I tried sharing once on Zeltros with my ex? It wasn’t that great.” She frowned. “Of course, maybe that was because he was a selfish ass but that Mando’ade kid? He's gotta be about your age, right? Do you think he's attractive?”

“We’re… not really… staying here,” Bastila said faintly. She had heard the Zeltros story before--although the smuggler would not remember. “You do know that?”

“Yeah.” The smuggler scowled at her, stalking forward like a barely-tamed manka. “I know we aren't here forever, but this caper’s gonna take some time while we figure out the codes, right? Hey, you know Davik’s adorable. Wants me to duel this lady called 'Ice?’ Like in a drink or a plan--planet.” She shook her head sharply. “An ice planet? Like… like--an ice… planet.”

Her right eyelid twitched and something sparked in the link between them.

_ An ice planet. Hoth,  _ Bastila thought. There it was. But the smuggler seemed perfectly alert still, no trace of panic in her eyes at all.

“Like Hoth,” Bastila said out loud, rolling the dice. 

Green eyes blinked at her. “Yeah. Like Hoth.” Polla shrugged as if the moment was gone. “Lady’s got a name like Hoth--I mean 'Ice.’ Davik wants us to fight in our underwear… then he'll hire me to fly his ship, and we’ll all live happily ever after--” 

“Polla, you know that isn’t… that isn’t our objective.”

“Do I look stupid?” The woman untied her topknot and began knotting it back again, restless movements that Bastila found oddly familiar. “Gain his trust. Steal his stuff. I get the plan.”

“That is somewhat of an oversimplification--”

“E chu ta!” Mission pushed in through the door behind them. “Farking, bossy mercs! Canderous says I have to bunk with you guys unless you tell me to leave 'cause you have company. And then I'm okay to go hang out with Big Z and Carth, or him, but not the Jedi kid Elias or that Mandalorian guy, because we would need chaperones.” She rolled her eyes. “Man’s got some issues, you know? He says I need to be careful cause Davik’s guest quarters are like a brothel, but that’s kriffin’ stupid! I haven’t even seen any whores!”

“Been to a lot of brothels, huh?” Polla leaned against the wall and picked up one of the blasters that had been riding on her hips. She twisted the barrel in a spin--

Bastila pulled it to her hand before she could think.

“Whoa!” Mission exclaimed. “You just totally used the Force!”

“I could not risk either of you injuring yourselves,” Bastila told her, trying not to look at the Deralian, who looked as stunned as if she had actually shot herself.

“I had that fine,” the woman snapped.  _ How the hell did she do that? Slipped out of my hand. Did I drop it or did she grab it? _

_ I grabbed it before you could drop it, _ Bastila thought carefully and watched all color drain from the other woman’s face.

“Nice weapons,” Mission chirped on, heedless of the sudden tension in the room. “Are those guns all for me?”

Polla swallowed and took a breath.  _ Shut up. _

“Not  _ all. _ Pick one.” The smuggler abruptly turned her back on Bastila and began unbuckling the arsenal from her body and laying each weapon out on the bed. Forced cheer made her voice razor-edged.

“Do the Force again? Can you use it to float people too?” Mission asked Bastila, picking up some kind of sniper’s rifle and patting it. “I want this one.”

“That's the nicest one!” But the smuggler had a teasing smile on her face, staring at the girl. “Had a feeling you'd want that one.” 

“The Force is not a toy--” Bastila began and then froze at the sight of the hilt in Re--Polla’s right hand. 

“Canderous told me to take what I wanted from the armory,” the woman said, pointing it at her.

Polla-- _ Revan’s-- _ feet were slightly apart, her fingers coiled loosely on the grip, arm extended in a near-perfect makashi open. As Bastila watched, the woman twisted the hilt in her hand, flipping it expertly to the left, and then back. 

_ Too expertly. _

“You should be careful with that--” Bastila whispered. “Don't direct the beam end toward anyone unless you--”

“Hey, I can't turn it on!” Polla laughed. “Was gonna give it to Elias, but--maybe you… you should have it. Here.” 

She tossed the lightsaber in the air and Bastila caught it--calling it more sloppily than Master Ulgo would have approved of.

The hilt was warm beneath her fingers. It should not have been--not if the crystal was dormant--

Bastila got up from the bed and made a show of safety, although they were in no danger. Bastila had been training with live crystals since she was nine years old. The blade extended, humming and blue, its resonance slightly softened in that way the kaiburr crystals were when their user had died.

“Wow,” Mission said. “Doesn't look as scary when you're holding it and not the Sith creepazoids.”

“It is just as deadly,” Bastila warned her. “A weapon is a weapon in anyone’s hand. Sometimes even more dangerous due to ignorance.” The knight who had borne this saber had not been a man she had known very well. She felt the whisper of his remnants in the Force brush against her barriers, vanishing into the Force to which they all returned. 

“Then it’ll keep you safe,” Polla said. She picked up a vibroblade, twisting it back and forth, and raising an eyebrow. “Hey! Can we see if your lightsaber cuts through this? Canderous says it won't, but I heard laser swords can cut through  _ anything-- _ ”

“Not… not now.” Bastila murmured, switching the saber off again and pocketing it. It was not her double-bladed staff, but it would suffice. Her hand brushed the diadem on her belt and she unclipped it, setting the neural disruptor down on the table.

_ What are you doing?  _ her own internal voice wondered.

_ A test,  _ she thought calmly. _ I must know how far this… this extends-- _

“That's kind of an ugly crown,” Mission yawned. “It valuable?”

“It is a neural disruptor,” Bastila said. “It blocks the Force. “This is one the Black Vulkars used on us. This one is not very advanced--it can be removed by just pulling it off. That's why Elias and I had our hands in binders at the swoop tracks.”

“A test of what?” The Deralian expression was puzzled.

_ She heard me. _

“You're talking, aren't you? Course I heard.”

_ Not out loud. _

“No sithspit. Your lips aren't moving.” The woman shook her head sharply. “Think I didn't notice when you did it to me before? I heard you before. Stop it.”

“Polla?” Mission put down her sniper rifle. “Are you talking to us?”

“I'm talking to  _ her,” _ the Deralian snapped. “Jedi Shan, here. She's in my head. Some kind of Jedi thing.”

“You can talk to people in their heads? Wow! That's major!” Mission’s brow ridges shot up and she turned to Bastila. “How far is the range? Like, if you were standing behind someone opening a three-pin safe, and you thought the answers back to your buddy at one of the other pins? Would that work?”

“It is… not that simple.” Bastila raised a hand to signal the girl to silence. Her own gaze was fixed on the green-eyed smuggler staring back at her.

“I saw one of those crown-tiara-things before,” Polla continued slowly, ignoring Mission. “In the cantina. This Sith agent that I killed. She had one. Was that because she was looking for you and Elias?”

“She said she was after  _ you, _ Polla,” Mission pointed out. “But oh, yeah! I remember that thing! It was gold, right?” She made a face. “Was weird. It made me feel all buzzy.”

“A neural disruptor can have that effect, Mission.” Bastila watched Polla Organa carefully as the smuggler’s mouth twitched.

Polla cleared her throat. “You want me to put it on, don't you?” She chuckled but her eyes looked lost. “I think I’m on to you, Shan.”

“Why?” Mission interrupted. “You’re not a Jedi--”

“Yes,” Bastila said. Right now the bond between them was utterly silent, but she  _ felt  _ it, like the bricks of an impenetrable wall--a lynchpin, supporting them both. “You will be able to remove it yourself if you find the experience uncomfortable.”

“Fine.” Polla reached for the half circlet and jammed it on her head. The seals hissed softly as they attached to her skin, but she didn't flinch. “Fine,” she repeated. “Now what?”

In the Force, her presence flickered and dimmed. Or was that just Bastila's perception of her presence?

“Feel anything?” The Twi’lek asked. “It made me feel all buzzy when I tried that other one on.”

“Just ridiculous?” Polla yawned, and walked to the mirror, making a face at her reflection. “They test for the Force on Deralia. Da said he’d seen pieces of toast with more Force than our family. I don't have it.”

“Any reaction to the device means you have some Force sensitivity, Mission,” Bastila admitted. “It's quite common.” It was not, but she thought the falsehood would soothe Polla--and the Twi’lek’s potential seemed very slight. Even if the girl had been taken to an enclave in her infancy, Bastila suspected she would not have progressed very far. There was no shame in that. Indeed, at times Bastila envied the members of the Service Corps their freedom.

“This means I get to be a Jedi?” Mission asked. “Because I could see how all those powers could come in handy, you know? If I ever wanted to make someone trip--or rob some rich sents or something!” 

“I don't think Jedi do that,” Polla snorted.

“Maybe they should.” Mission clambered onto the bed by the wall, kicking off her boots. “They got all these magic powers, they should use em to help sents that need it.” 

“The Jedi I met on the  _ Endar Spire  _ helped me.” Polla frowned. “We were on a mission to help others--I think.” She walked over to Mission and sat down next to her, turning her back on Bastila. The gesture had to be deliberate.

“They're all dead, right?” The girl asked tactlessly.

“I think so.”

“No, Mission.” Bastila shook her head. “You will not be a Jedi. Many people have a small affinity. But real Force potential is rare. And Jedi are trained young--very young. I was considered old at seven when my parents brought me to an Enclave.”  _ And left me there.  _

“So, no Jedi stuff?” Mission didn't seem very upset. “What about these weapons, then? Are there more where they came from? Polla? Some of these are worth serious creds!” She leaned over and picked up a vibroblade that was covered in sparkling gems. “I want this one too.”

“Yeah. Okay. Get Canderous to show you.” Polla waved at her, suddenly distracted, and then let her hand drop. Bastila noticed that her other hand had curled into a fist. The knuckles were white. “I’m... gonna… get some rest before my duel, okay? Canderous said he'd get me in an hour… I need… I need to rest.”

“You want to come with me, Bastila?” Mission looked between them. “Or is this one of those, 'let’s get the kid out of the room so we can talk about her things?’”

“Of course not!” Bastila began politely--

“One, you're not a kid,” interrupted Polla. “And two, this isn't about you--it’s about me, okay? And, no offense, kid. But it’s personal.” Her head dropped to her hand and she uncurled it, exhaling heavily.

The girl twisted her t'chun. “Geez! You know you gotta tell me later, right?”

“Go,” Polla said, through gritted teeth. “Get out.”

“Fine! Don't be such a rancor! Geez!” Mission bounded out, taking her new rifle and vibroblade with her.

Bastila composed her features to look compassionate and waited. It didn't take long. The door slid shut and Polla turned her head back to her.

“It feels like botflies are crawling just under my skin. It feels like the world is… darker. Like I’m… blinder.” Polla’s voice was very quiet, but entirely Polla’s. “I don't like it.”

“Take off the band,” Bastila said. It shouldn't be possible if they were Force-linked and the woman was blocked from it, but Polla’s unease suddenly flared in her gut, like the sharp taste if fear.

“No.” The smuggler set her jaw stubbornly. “I tested for the Force when I was ten, and I don't have it. I'm fine--this is nerves or something. The power of suggestion.” She narrowed her eyes, standing up. “Or maybe it's you--doing something to me.”

“Doing something?”

“Like… hypnosis. Therion and I met this sent once, called a Diathim? Six wings. She was working this scam on Corulag. Something with real estate--she was selling bridges to Bithans, I don’t--guess it doesn't matter. She convinced me to stand on one leg and I didn't even notice. Then, she had Therion saying 'frack,’ at the end of every sentence too. It was nuts. Did you do something like that to me?” Without waiting for an answer she turned and selected a double-bladed vibrosword from the pile on the bed and slid it into a holster on her back. Two silver pistols went on her hips before she turned back to Bastila, frowning distractedly. 

“Why…” Bastila reminded herself the woman had just given her a weapon too. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” Polla snapped. “Davik wants me to audition for the job or someth--”

The door chimed. “Who is it?” Bastila managed.

“Service--” the answer came faint, almost nervous.

“Enter.” Polla made the word a command. 

The door apexed open and a nervous-looking yellow Twi’lek man entered, his arms full of sealed garment vacupacks, long and flat. Colors inside glinted: red, and blue and green and gold. And pink. “Oh!” he said, taking in both of them. “Where shall I put--?” 

Since Polla’s bed was occupied, Bastila indicated hers. 

“Oh, yeah. Davik,” the smuggler shrugged. “Said I should dress for dinner.” She looked Bastila up and down. “Maybe find something yourself that's got a bit more to it than the bathrobe.”

“Would either of you ladies like a massage?” the Twi’lek murmured, in a provocative tone that left no illusion about its intent.

“No,” Bastila told him firmly before Polla could say anything--but the woman was staring into thin air now, her hand creeping to the diadem across her brow.

“Frack this!” she said and tore it off.

The Twi’lek’s retreat was only evident by the sound of the door sliding closed.

This time there was no mistake. Bastila felt the hair standing up on her arms, as she heard the other woman’s thoughts in her mind, felt the Force flicker between them.

_ Like botflies crawling under my skin. It's gotta be hypnosis or the power of suggestion, or the Jedi did something to me when they healed my head like Carth said-- _

“Polla,” Bastila said firmly, interrupting the internal monologue while the smuggler tore through the pile of gowns, finally holding up the plain white one and frowning at herself in the mirror door. “What are you talking about--dinner?”

The woman pivoted smoothly to face her, still holding the ridiculous gown to her chest. “I have to earn the asshole’s trust if we're getting off this kriffing planet. He asked me to dinner.” The smuggler tugged her blasters off, then the sword’s brace, and then the rest of her clothing, stripping down to skivs and a battered vest that Bastila recalled had been taken from the real Polla on the _Ascendant._ Pieces of the familiar to offset the strange. That had been Master Ferrin’s idea. 

“But we have to stay here, until--” 

_ Until what? Why the frack is she so twigged? _

_ I am not--what 'twigged’ is. I am not. I am concerned. Your anger may make you irrational-- _

Their eyes met and then Polla looked away first, fumbling with the vest’s snaps, and slipping into the gown. The weapons she buckled back over the loose fabric were incongruous, but Bastila could hardly tell her to go unarmed. She did not want her to go at all--

“What business is it of yours?” Polla said. “If I go out with Davik or not? You're not my boss.”

Bastila could feel the woman’s panic shifting to something else--something harder. It felt like ice.

_ Like Hoth. Like an ice planet, it's an ice planet. _

_ Peace,  _ Bastila thought faintly. The mix of competence and confusion was disturbing. “I am the remaining highest-ranking Jedi from the  _ Endar Spire.  _ And that means you  _ do _ report to me. You and Carth both.”

“Except I quit.” The wall snapped back again. “Your whatever didn't work. I was being nice, helping Captain Obvious find you, but now you're found. Davik may be coreslime, but I know the type. I’ll have him offering me profit sharing in a week. Or maybe I’ll take the Mando’ade up on their offer to go to Nar--Riek said Canderous was thinking about it.”

“We need to leave Taris as soon as possible,” Bastila told her firmly. “All of us. As for your continuation with our mission, we will discuss that once you have helped me leave the planet.”

“Then you and Elias use your Jedi magic to help Mission and Zaalbar hack into Davik’s systems,” Polla announced. “I’ll work on charming his pants off--not literally. Though he's not bad-looking, I guess, if you like a lot of gold chains and men who smell like musk nerf oil. Which I don't….” She leaned over the stack of dresses and ripped a piece of red trim from one, using it to knot her hair. “You’ll be safe here.”

_ I need to get away from her. I need to figure out what the frack is going on-- _

_ Peace. _

“Stop saying that.” Polla Organa turned in the gown, hem flaring around her legs. “Stop doing that… Jedi trick thing you're doing with my head. Just stay out of my head.”

For a disorienting moment when their eyes locked, Bastila saw herself: wrapped in a robe that had been hanging in the fresher, hair loose and untidy after she had scrubbed this world’s horror from her skin, blue eyes wide--

_ Stop it!  _ An abrupt mental shove and she was back in her own body again, with the other woman standing over her, scowling.

“You're giving me the creeps,” Polla muttered shaking her head. “When you look at me--I  _ don't  _ look like that. I don’t.”

The door chimed and she answered it before Bastila could object more. It swung open, revealing Captain Carth Onasi.

“What are you wearing?” the man boggled.

“Clothes. For my date with Davik Kang. Dinner and a duel.” Polla Organa narrowed her eyes at him. “You stay here and watch Jedi Shan.”

Xxx

“No.” He shook his head, holding the Mandalorian visor he'd gotten from the kid Riek, after Canderous told him the insane plan they’d cooked up. “I’ll play bodyguard. We're a team, remember?”

The filmy white dress looked incredible on her, flattering the pale gold cast of her skin, the faint spattering of freckles on her arms and nose. It was cut high across the neck, but left her shoulders bare and half her back. The addition of weapons should have made it ridiculous, but instead, Carth thought they made Polla Organa look dangerous-- _ dangerously beautiful _ . 

“A bodyguard is a good idea,” Bastila Shan added.

There was a long pause. Then Polla’s face twisted, and she muttered something under her breath.

Padawan Shan folded her arm. “I suppose a crimelord can't be kept waiting,” she offered. “Go to him. But take Carth. The rest of us will remain here.” She bit her lip. “Please be careful.”

“Don't spy on me!” Polla turned toward the door. 

“Just coming along to watch,” Carth muttered, taking her arm because it seemed to be on offer.

“I meant  _ her.  _ Shan. Does she do it to you too?” She’d lowered her voice and was pulling him along the corridor now, upending the pretense of who was escorting who. “Get in your head? Whisper things?”

“What?” Carth glanced back--and then back to Polla. “No! Is she doing that to you?”

“Either that or I’m nuts.” Her laugh was brittle. “Guess the arbiters are still deciding that one, huh?”

He squeezed her arm gently, trying to slow her down. “I don’t know much about the Force, but Jedi can… they can do a lot of things. Is Bastila hurting you?”  _ Who knows what turns them Dark? Maybe just being here surrounded by Sith could do it. Maybe that’s all it takes-- _

“No, she means well.” Polla snorted. “How fracked is it that I know she means well? I don’t  _ have _ the Force. My cousin had it. Beya Organa.  _ She  _ had it, but I don’t. Da said nobody in our family had more Force than toast. Or… something. H-he said something like that.”

“Does she think you have it?” Carth asked cautiously. He didn’t know much about it himself. Morgana had an uncle or something who’d gone to Jedi, but he’d washed out pretty fast. And Saul had--Saul’s daughter had--it, both her fathers acting like she’d won the lottery before, right before--

Xxx

“ _ Maybe we should get Dustil tested.” Morgana pushed the box of ice crema back to Carth. Half-empty now, and the credits to the sappy holo-vid he’d picked still playing on the screen. His wife was soft and warm against him on the couch. “Garrett says it’s not very expensive. And then we'd know.” _

_ “It's a status thing,” Carth didn't want to argue about it, but what Garrett Karath didn't think was expensive was a month’s mortgage on their conapt. “Pay credits… then you get a certificate to frame on the wall. Our kid’s not a Jedi--if he had been, the Jedi would have come for him. We wouldn't want that, right?” _

_ Her brow knit stubbornly--she, who'd been against testing him for years. “I’ll pay. Out of my savings.” _

_ “Why?” Carth sighed. “Is this about that report from his teacher? He's just a little hyper--I was too at his age. Get him tested for  _ that.”

_ Her brow furrowed. “No.”  _

_ And then Morgana just smiled and changed the subject-- _

_ Xxx _

_ Did she ever get him tested?  _ Carth supposed he’d never know. It didn't matter now--just a sick, bitter satisfaction that he'd felt when he'd heard that Garrett Karath hung himself, that Saul had lost his husband and his daughter too--

“Flyboy?” Quizzical voice and an elbow to the ribs brought him back to the present. “Hey. You okay?”

_ Easy.  _ Carth choked back the bile.  _ Garrett and Selene deserve better than  _ that. “Yeah. Sorry was just… just thinking.”

“Well, this is the door to Kang’s digs,” Polla said. They’d reached the end of the corridor. “Put on that helmet and start acting like a bodyguard. And don’t say  _ anything,  _ okay? I know Davik’s a sleemo, but he’s the sleemo with the goods. Just follow my lead.” 

_ I will. To the end of the galaxy.  _ It wasn’t a rational thought, but Carth had it anyway.

Xxx

“Didn't say to bring an escort, gorgeous.” Davik bit back a stronger reprimand because the new girl was taking his goddamned breath away right now, standing there in a ten-thousand credit gown of gossamer spin-silk, with another ten-kays worth of hardware strapped to her delicious hips. 

_ Damn.  _

He'd never seen Darth Revan in person, but he'd seen Malak’s copy-piece often enough--admired her from afar when she’d dined at his casinos, met with the governor on his sec feeds--and now it seemed like her idiot twin sister (or black market copy) had been fool enough to walk into  _ his  _ life. Well. Sometimes the universe delivered to its most deserving son something more than just a spice-crate for his name day.

Davik’s name day was in two days if you wanted to get technical, but close enough.

The dark-haired vision of twisted Sith loveliness looked up at him through grass-green eyes and actually fluttered her eyelashes. “You mean my Mandalorian husband? Oh, he decided to come on his own.” She gave Davik a demure smile and actually winked. “Wouldn't be the first time.”

Behind her, the helmeted man said nothing. 

“Husband?” Davik clasped his hand to his heart. “Don't toy with me.”

She shrugged, flipping her topknot back. “Don’t you like toys?” Her arm extended and Davik took it, escorting her to his covered car with the Mandalorian still trudging behind them.

_ Not as dim as I first thought,  _ he thought. _ A woman with the face of a Sith Lord and the wit besides? I think I’m in love. _

Xxx

_ Get out of my head.  _

_ As I said before, I can advise you, Polla. _

Polla closed and opened her eyes a few times. Took another deep breath.

_ I don't need advice. I got this. _

They were seated at a table set for two, with Carth standing behind her chair, probably furious under that helmet. The real Mandies, Canderous and Riek, were standing in a line with three more armored sents near the door of their private dining room. The wine was that gross sweet stuff, but after four glasses, Polla found it more tolerable--

_ You've had enough. _

_ I've had enough of  _ you,  _ Jedi Shan. Whatever this Force-thing is you're doing to me is--it has to stop.  _

Polla motioned the waiter for another bottle. Weird thing was, usually she'd feel more of a buzz.

_ Buzz-kill, _ she thought at the voice.  _ Killjoy. Leave. _

_ It is not that simple.  _ Bastila was somewhere with Mission. Somehow, Polla just knew that, with an uneasy feeling in her mind that she did.

_ What have you done to me? _

“You haven't touched your dock,” Davik chided her. 

“I hate fish,” Polla gave him another smile to shut him up. “Didn't realize it’d be fish. Hey, so I heard you’ve got the only pilot who’s run the Sith blockade on Taris?” She tilted her head. “You must have skills.”

“Oh, I do....” His lecherous smile was familiar territory. Davik brought a piece of nerf steak to his mouth slowly. “Mostly skilled with my choice of connections and hiring. Governor's office owes me favors. But a fast ship helps too when the Imperial Fleet’s in orbit. They don't always honor their own security codes.”

“I made the Defelli Run in fourteen parsecs,” she bragged. 

“Pretty good,” Davik said. “But I have a pilot who made it in twelve and a half.”

“Right.” She snorted. “That line might work on Taris cantina rats, but my da's the title holder. Eleven-point-eight. No one's come close since. But someday I'm gonna beat that--”

“Your father’s Jasp Organa?” The man looked genuinely gobsmacked. “Kriff me! You're actually Deralian?”

“What'd you think I was?” It didn't matter. Polla had his attention finally. Finally, that  _ shift.  _ When a sent stopped thinking of you like a piece of meat and started thinking of you like a person with skills.

Now Kang was shaking his head side to side. “Then you're a  _ registered _ smuggler?”

“Like I said. Polla Organa, registered smuggler,” she told him. “Look me up on the lists. Paid guild dues and everything.”

“How’d you end up--” his comm-link beeped and he frowned down at it. “Huh. That's odd.”

“What?” Her own head turned slightly back toward Captain Obvious. Carth was hiding behind her chair. She couldn't see his scowl, only imagine it. 

“Main port’s on lockdown, military code access only.”

“Well, right. Your planet’s got an embargo.”

“This is different,” Kang frowned. “Must have been another bomb. Damn freedom fighters.”

“Sure,” Polla drawled. “Freedom’s overrated. You still want to see me fight now? Or are we good?”

“If you’re Jasp’s kid...” He finally looked up from his emitter. “You know I can comm our mutuals to check.” 

“I've been meaning to comm home anyway.”  _ Ma and Da might be worried if they heard about the  _ Spire.  _ Bet Davik has a wideband comm-link.  _ “Any more questions? Ask away.”

“Later, babe.” He leaned back in his chair, chuckling. “Now that I know what you are… well, deal’s a deal. You gonna duel Ice or not?” His eyebrows raised, making that star tattooed on his forehead wink. “Tell you what--do it in skivs like you offered and I’ll make it five thousand, not three.”

Polla looked down at herself. The dress she'd grabbed from the pile was white. 

_ Hate white dresses. Why did I choose it? _ “Sure. You got a changing room?”

_ Be careful, _ the voice inside her head whispered.  _ Please. _

_ Always, _ Polla told it.  _ Got us this far, didn’t I? Relax. _

Xxx

“Buzz off, Starkiller. I got a match in ten.” Captain Rinata McLowd, now known on the dueling circuit as 'Ice,’ leaned into the mirror and ran the lip-brush over her mouth again, staining them a solid blue. Similar stripes ran across her eyes already. 

“That is my interest.” The looming hulk in the doorway had buckled his armor on. “Let me fight the match for you.”

“Are you crazy? No!” Rinata laughed. “Davik banned your ass. This is just some new piece of his he wants me to fight in our underwear so he can get off. Should take five minutes, tops.” She buckled her vibroblade to her back and selected a blaster from the pile in the basket next to her cosmetics. “He’s gonna pay me an easy ten.”

“I’ll pay twice that.” 

“I said, no. Davik’s  _ here,  _ Benny! What, you think he won't notice when you turn up in the ring instead of me?”

“By then it will be too late. I bribed Ajuur to lock the field. No one else in the dome and no one out. Not until someone’s down.”

“Why the hell would Ajuur bite the hand that’s feeding him? Davik’ll flay you both!”

“Because I know something Kang does not.” His gray eyes glittered, more than a little nuts. Rinata should have never taken him to bed. “The Imperial Fleet’s issuing orders to space its ships in quadrants around the planet. Evenly spaced. Burning fuel to stay in low orbit.”

“What?” Ice froze, the eyelash curler she'd grabbed for a touch-up still in hand. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

Starkiller didn't bother to answer. “I have a modified carrier.  _ Thranta- _ class, with a Mandalorian cloak. I will get you off this world. Ajuur too. Zekk has it fueled and waiting. We can run the blockade. Give me this fight, McLowd, and I’ll make sure you live to fight again.”

She looked up at him. If what he said was true--

_ And why would Bendak Starkiller lie?  _

“Why  _ this _ fight?” she asked. “Some piece of Davik’s? She barely beat Deadeye Duncan!”

“It’s personal,” he said. “Vanity, perhaps. My own weakness. Do you care?”

“If you lose, I’m still getting on that ship?” No telling how he could, fighting a piece, but you never knew. Maybe this was Benny’s way of tucking it all in. She’d seen men go down worse.

“You have my word.” The Mandalorian leaned in and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Ret'urcye mhi, cyare.”

“Bye to you too.” Rinata looked up at him, puzzled. “Cyare?” It meant ‘beloved.’ That was coming on a little strong.

“I should have said it earlier.” He turned and left before Rinata could wonder if she was supposed to say it back. 

Xxx

“And now…” the speaker above Polla’s head crackled. Her skin prickled in the cold. “A fight for the ages. The Mysterious Stranger versus….” 

The plat Polla was in shot up, sending her into the dueling ring. Her eyes went to the crowd, instinctively looking for Captain Obvious, but the blur of faces was too… blurry. Suddenly, all of the crowd was eclipsed by a wall of blue. It took her another few seconds to realize that wasn’t in her head.

_ Forcefield? Huh. That's new. _

_ What? What’s new? _

“And Bendak Starkiller!” the Hutt said. “Two enter the dome, but only one will leave!”

_Thought I was fighting a woman._ _Bendak_ _Starkiller?_ The name was familiar, but Polla couldn't place why.

_ Be careful, _ that inner voice cautioned. Polla tried to think it sounded more like Ma than some bossy Jedi, but it was more like this bossy Jedi, who couldn't be more than twenty Standard, sounded a lot like her ma.

_ Shut. Up, _ Polla told her. Again.

Xxx

“Oh, you're a dead Hutt, Ajuur,” Davik muttered. “Nobody crosses me!”

“Why is that forcefield there?” Organa’s Mandie guard interrupted, reminding Davik of his existence. “What's going on?”

“Deathmatch,” Davik told him flatly, standing up, eyes on the plat where Ajuur usually lounged. Plat was empty. “Don't know what that murderer paid my Hutt but it won't be enough ta put his guts back in.” He signaled to his Boys standing by the exit, and they moved after, slower than he liked.

_ Ajuur could've paid them off too.  _ Betrayal was part of the package of being the boss, but Davik was pissed he hadn't seen this coming.

_ And for what? So Bendak could get his jollies offing a nice piece of tail? _

It wasn't fair.

Starkiller was supposed to have a thing about Jedi. That last duel of his--the one that finally got him banned--he'd even pulled out a lightsaber. Claimed to have taken it off a Jedi himself. But the Deralian wasn’t  _ really  _ a Jedi--so this was just some kind of tragic waste of a registered smuggler.  _ Frackdanjit, _ smugglers had a  _ code.  _ And if this Organa was who she said she was, well--Jasp Organa’s daughter? Why, the man was a legend. What a waste of what looked to be such a promising piece of ass this would be, his daughter, smeared across the dueling ring like yesterday's lunch. 

“Deathmatch?” Organa’s Mandie husband’s voice cracked. “You’ve got to stop it! Pull the power!”

“And bring down the entire grid? You know what that would cost me? The slots alone….” Davik shook his head. “Hope you said your farewells, pal. Starkiller won't leave enough of to kiss goodbye.”

Davik looked over at the droid bookmaker, who’d been inundated suddenly with sents desperate to take their credits off the Mysterious Stranger. He'd put a few thousand on her himself, so he knew how they felt. “Sorry!” he called out, walking toward the poor slobs. “Tough break, but a bet’s a bet.” He made hand signals to the book to change his own. The thing’s eyes flashed three times and its head inclined as the read-outs flashed on Davik’s occipital feed.  _ Change approved. _

He glanced up at the board. Odds had shifted: from giving the Deralian a one in ten, to giving her a one in ten thousand. A secondary market on injuries and timing had also sprung up fast: time to first blood, eye-gouging, limb amputation--

_What a waste. Still. Easy come easy go._ He sighed. _Good thing you'll die fast, copy-piece. Money’s tight enough, but I'd go broke trying to pay the chits on your win._

Xxx

The noise of the crowd faded as the dome sealed itself. Across from Bendak, framed by the two duracrete barriers on her end, his opponent stood, blinking like a new calf. The weapon she had badly chosen was clutched awkwardly in her hands: a barbaric monstrosity of cheap durasteel and carbon plates, designed for a much larger warrior than she.

Her face turned toward Bendak, eyes wide and green--even at this distance.

Unmistakable, even at this distance. Even if they had to be a lie.

When he had first seen her in Jayvar’s Cantina, Bendak had wondered what it was he was seeing. Or… _ who.  _

It had been the movement that had caught his eye first. So fast as to be a blur when she'd dispatched one of the dar’jett agents. Dia was no weakling, but she'd been felled in two blows.

And the dark-haired woman  _ dodged.  _ He'd had the cam running on his belt as it always was. The recording did not lie, and he could not forget that face--even when it was worn by Darth Malak’s new wife.

Bendak had known the original once. Not for very long, and when the galaxy had been an entirely different place. The woman was not her, but she was jett’ai. She could  _ not  _ be Revan, and yet--

_ “In these times we all wear the names we must,”  _ he had told her before in Jayvar's Cantina. And so they did. Bendakorious Lin, the son of the Fett Cassus Lin, had perished long ago, weeping in an airshaft surrounded by six layers of duracrete while a red-eyed, humming metal monster above slew all of his kin. Bendarkorious had died in cowardice, with no one left to sing his battle songs--or the songs of his vanished clan.

Bendak Starkiller was dar’manda, cin vhetin, and so she--this illusion of a dead woman walking--so she, too, was merely an echo of that past glory.

“What the frack is this?” she called out from the other end of the circle. Her voice was flat as the plains of Malachor III. A poor imitation.

[“Honor,”] Bendak told her in Mando’ade. [“Yours or mine. It cannot be both.”] 

As she had been stripped of armor, so was he. It was not the fight his father had fought upon the sands--she was merely an imitation of that woman, and he himself was less than that great man--but nonetheless, their shadows would dance for this hollow world to see.

_ On this day you will die, Sheris Darkstar. It is a good day. _

Xxx

There was a man in his underwear trying to kill Polla. A man in his underwear with a vibrosword. He was running at her. There was a forcefield at her back and nowhere to run away from the man in his underwear with a vibrosword who was trying to kill her.

Polla did what any sensible sent would and laid in a line of fire toward his meaty torso. No guilt, even this time, because this was a dueling ring, not like she’d kill him--

_ But you must. This is a deathmatch. And that man is your death. _

Her shots all missed the meaty torso. One winged the side of his thigh. As if in slow motion, she noted that it left a mark when it did. A red gouge. 

_ Live plasma. Not tampered down.  _

_ This is a deathmatch. And he can kill you in seconds. _

The shot had no other effect.

_ Frack!  _ He was on her. Polla raised the double-hander, hastily dropping her blaster, hastily pulling the sword up with both hands--

His  _ beskad _ hit her sword thing with a sharp clash. There was a cracking noise. And then her flashy double split in two, cracked along its carbon web.

“Piece of--” she was already throwing herself to the side, trying to get away, scrambling to her feet again, tensing--

_ Deathmatch?  _ That voice in her head. Now Polla knew it. Not the one that sounded like her conscience. This was alien. Alarmed. Jedi.  _ Polla? What deathmatch? _

“No.” The man was ordinary. Middle-aged, maybe a little younger. She couldn't place why he looked familiar. He shook his head and brought his sword up in a sharp salute with both hands. Something clicked and the blade and hilt split in two, leaving him one in each hand. “You insult the face, dar’jett. And me. Give me an honorable attempt before I kill you.” He held out the blade that was in his left hand, weighing it, before tossing it, upending, toward her.

It spun (perfectly balanced) and her right hand closed on the hilt. “Insult the face?” Polla jeered. “Is that supposed to hurt my feelings, sleemo?”

_ Deathmatch?  _ Bastila Shan again. In her mind.

_ Shut up! _

_ Peace.  _ The reply was overlain with an edge of panic.

The man ran at Polla again. Her new weapon had a hook on its end. Slightly shorter than his. This time Polla stood steady until her nerves screamed, then darted to the side, sliding her steel against his. The metal sang.

“Good,” her enemy said approvingly. “Now it begins for real.”

_ Beskad. Twin ceremonial swords for the battle circle. He's got strength, a longer reach, experience-- _

_ Polla?  _ The voice again.  _ What do you mean deathmatch? _

_ I mean I’m in one.  _ He was coming at her again, and Polla ducked, somehow flipping backwards in a roll before scrambling to feet again.  _ I mean this guy in his underwear is trying to kill me. Help! _

Xxx

“Deathmatch?” As if from a distance, Bastila heard herself say the word out loud. 

“What?” Mission gave an exaggerated sigh, while next to her the Wookiee Zaalbar of the Eiweorr Branch didn't even look up from his console.

[“Careful,”] Elias whispered from the door. [“Kang has security sweeps every thirty. Riek said this has to be fast.”]

“Yeah, yeah.” Mission rolled her eyes. “You in, Big Z?”

[“Yes,”] her furry friend yowled something and the Twi’lek traced it on the pad.

“There is no one close,” Bastila murmured. She had promised to keep her senses open, but now the smuggler’s battle threatened to overwhelm her.

_ Peace, _ she thought again, even as panic wired her nerves.  There was a noise ringing in her ears, metal on metal, but it sang like crystal. Her feet slipped in the sand--

_ Wait. Sand?  _

Bastila looked through Polla's eyes at the reassuring plasticore of the dueling room floor. 

_ There is no sand,  _ Polla thought.

_ There is no sand, _ Bastila echoed faintly. Trepidation made her stomach sink. For sand came from fragments of a memory she’d seen before.

XXX

_ They fought for hours. Sweat pooled under her mask, and her hair itched under her helm. Beskar-forged blades met cortosis-woven durasteel again and again. Their bare feet sank in the hot sand, kicking up plumes of dust. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ His robes were the color of sand. Hers were white. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ She lashed out and a line of red striped his shoulder, but he dodged the brunt of it. _ _   
_ _   
_ Finally. First blood is mine.   
_   
_ __ "Ucah'alla y nik," Polla muttered. The colloquial Mandalorian was coarse, too coarse for Mando’ade, but in battle--

_ The man’s eyes widened, and he darted forward, made their blades sing again. [“Did she show you the steps? Your master? Did she train you as my mother trained her?”] _

_ “Training? I just went to camp. When I was fifteen.” Polla lunged forward, jabbing fast, trying to get him to open. Her left side felt too exposed, but it had to be--she had to get him to extend himself, unbalance-- _

_ “May vain?”  _ His voice was startled. 

Me’ven. What? He’s asking you what are you talking about.

_ “I took lessons when I was fifteen.” Polla  _ knew _ he was going for the feint soon. Her nerves itched with the urge to extend herself. But he was fast, probably stimmed, and she had the advantage if the battle went long enough-- _

_ [“Your nonsense insults us both.”] _

_ [“Not as much as you dishonor the memory of the fallen with this charade.”] Polla spoke the words without thinking. [“This is no battle circle.”] _

_ He smiled grimly. [“We will see.”] _

_ “Wait! That's who you are! That ass in the cantina! Star-whatsit! Starfire--Starwalker--Starkiller? Hey! Do you know Canderous and Riek?” Polla froze, just a millisecond, but enough that his blade whipped out, drew a line across her side-- _

Bastila gasped, her hand going to her own ribs. Instinctively, her hand shot out as his blade sank in--

_ The Mandalorian stumbled back as if he'd been pushed, the tip of his sword coated with the woman’s blood. _

_ The Deralian’s hand lifted from her side, covered in red. “Asshole!” she gasped and charged forward-- “That really fracking hurt!” Her spike of fear was too loud, like a scream-- _

_ Xxx _

“Bastila? Hey! Snap out of it!” Mission’s voice. The Wookiee’s alarmed growls. All of it faded away.

Xxx

_ “Ah.” The man stood up slowly, a fierce smile on his face. [“You recover yourself. Yes. Fight me as  _ she _ fought my father,  _ use _ your dar’jett powers--”] _

_ “Asshole,” Polla snarled, lunging forward again. He was moving too slowly now. She didn’t know why but she wasn’t going to question it. There wasn’t time.  _

_ Xxx _

In the criminal’s lair, Bastila sank to the ground, her hands beginning to glow, only vaguely aware of the Wookiee’s roars of caution and the Twi’lek child’s astonished questions.

Xxx

“You've got to make them drop the field!” Carth was talking to Riek--at least, he hoped it was Riek. With helms on, the mercs all looked alike. Bastards probably did that on purpose.

“They can't.” Canderous's rough voice. “Hoi! Kandosi! You see that? Thought she was down, but she got right back up! Kid knows how to play an audience.”

The 'kid’ had a red line now across her torso and another one on her arm. Her opponent had a gouge in one leg and a few slices across his torso. They were both moving more slowly, but now--

Bendark Starkiller lunged forward again. Their blades clashed--

And then Polla twisted hers hard into the hilt of his, ducking and--

The movement was too fast to follow, but suddenly Starkiller’s weapon was spinning across the ground. And Polla’s was buried in the man’s chest.

The Mandalorian toppled like a felled tree.

Xxx

_ “Fourlin,”  _ the Mandalorian whispered, from her feet. “You… you really... are--”

Then his eyes fixed on nothing at all. Polla gave one final tug on the beskad sword in his heart before abandoning it, stuck on something in his chest.

_ Deathmatch, _ she thought oddly. 

There was a strange roaring in her ears, and it took her a second to realize what it was.

The crowd was going wild.

Xxx

That asshole Davik Kang had gotten up from his seat, suddenly glaring at Carth.

“This was a set-up!” he hissed. “Who do you really work for?”

Carth took a step backward, trying to assess if the guy was armed at all. “Her,” he hazarded, glancing over to where Polla was walking across the room like she owned it. She'd won the duel. Polla Organa, the smuggler from Deralia, known briefly as the 'Mysterious Stranger,’ had killed Bendak Starkiller.   
  
Hordes of screaming fans surrounded her as she came off the dueling ring floor. Her arm was badly slashed and bleeding, her side even worse, but she didn't seem to notice the pain. Her eyes were fever-bright, and she came towards him, parting the crowd easily just by walking as if she expected them all to move out of her way. 

To a sentient, they all did.

"You're bleeding," Carth said. It wasn't what he meant to say at all. He meant to say, _ 'how could you do anything this stupid?'  _ But the light in her eyes and the smile on her face made all the thoughts inconsequential. _ Legs. That's what I'd call you if you were mine. You fight like you're dancing. _   
  
“Yeah,” Polla breathed. “I’m bleeding. Got any kolto, soldier?”

“I do.” Carth pulled a pack out of his pocket. “Here. Let me--” Upon closer inspection, the wound in her ribs was the messier one. He planted the kolto against her skin, felt her sigh as she leaned against him. Her skin was warm and alive under his hand, her breaths coming in and out evenly as if she hadn’t just been fighting two and a half meters of Mandalorian with a metal dagger. 

“This was a set-up!” Davik snarled. “Well, you can tell  _ her _ the Exchange won't forget this! I have friends who can make things hard for even someone like--”

“You wanted her to duel, she dueled.” Carth gritted his teeth, looking for the exits.

“Flyboy?” Polla was staring up at him.

_ You just saw her stab a man in the chest,  _ the practical part of Carth’s brain reminded him, while the impractical one wished he wasn't wearing the helmet so he could smile back at her, move in, slip his arm around her waist and press his lips against hers again--

“I'm here,” he muttered. “Good job out there, you… uh--you’re hurt--” 

She was, but it didn’t seem to bother her. She moved so naturally, he'd even forgotten to notice how little she had on, but now it was evident--the freckled cream of her, the strength in those slender arms, her impossible legs.

“It's nothing.” Her green gaze went to Davik. “So, I won your deathmatch,” she snapped. “Guess that means I get the job?”

“Hah.” The Exchange boss’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Very funny. Here I thought you were some holo-job Ordo picked up in the red-light district! What do you really want?”

“Like I said. To fly your ship.” Polla shrugged. “What’d  _ you  _ want, trapping me in that dome with that crazy guy? Were you  _ trying  _ to kill me?”

“I trap  _ you-- _ oh, that's rich! You ruined me! You know what the odds were?”

Polla glanced at the board, eyes widening a little. “I do now. But you bet on me, right?”

“Bendak killed so many they outlawed lethal combat,” Davik snapped. “Man was a powerhouse and you just took him  _ down--” _

_ “Canderous!”  _ Polla turned to where two more armored suits were coming up in their left. “Your boss’s being kinda difficult.”

“You were supposed to fight Ice,” the kid Riek broke in, snapping off his helm to reveal an excited face. “But she backed out. Quoon says Starkiller bribed her and Ajuur both. Says she ran off. Something had them spooked. Something about the big ships moving into quadrants in low orbit--”

“Quadrants--?” Carth heard the Mandalorian echo the word almost as he said it himself.

“I don't know. The Imps move their ships. They've done it before. It’s a drill.”

“Yeah, but--” Canderous turned back to the crowd. “Imp officers are all gone,” he muttered. “Look. It’s happy hour. Place should be packed with them.”

“So?” Riek didn't seem to understand.

“Good riddance,” echoed Polla. She sidled closer to Davik. “Think we should discuss my salary over a drink now? I'll… need to see the ship, of course. Maybe take her for a test run?” 

“Drop the act!” he snarled. “I'm not blind! I know _ exactly _ who Canderous brought into my house! Was Nord in on it too? Is that why he’s gone?”

_ Damn. He knows about Bastila.  _ And they’d left her alone there with just the Wookiee and the kid. Carth felt his hands close into useless fists.

“No. Calo was captured,” Riek said. “That was the other thing I heard. By Darth Malak himself.”

Davik snarled. “Oh, isn't that a funny story? Well, you lot can tell Darth Malak I’d rather die than work for him.” His voice cracked. “Looks like I’m dead either way.”

“If you know who's in your house, you know you have to help us,” Carth broke in, feeling desperate. “You haven't turned her in yet, so I'm guessing if you want an offer… or maybe there's a scrap of decency left in you. You know what Malak… what he’ll do to her.”

Davik cackled. “Hasn't he already  _ done _ \--?”

“Be quiet,” Polla barked. “All of you.” She held up her hand and Davik stopped talking. Polla was staring at the vid screen flashing the evening holo-news. 

**Imperial Fleet Testing Defensive Maneuvers in Low Orbit,** the chyron read.  **There is no reason for alarm. This is merely a test of the Taris Defense Grid. In the event of an actual emergency--**

“Those fighter squads….” Her voice was soft. “Do they… they're using live ammo for a test? The torpedo bays on the bombers are all full.”

“Probably just plimsi--copies--” Carth answered her with how Fleet did it without thinking, even as one of the bombers sailed past the view-cam, bristling with munition, red lights blinking.

“They don't look like copies,” Polla muttered. She’d wrapped her arms around herself. 

She was right. 

_ Wouldn't need that many bays full for a drill either.  _

_ “Davik,”  _ Canderous said bluntly. “Seems like your pilot’s gone. Without Nord, who's gonna fly that ship of yours?”

Davik looked between the three of them. “This was a set-up,” he snapped. “Don't think I can't see it!”

“Does it matter?” Polla said. “We can fly your ship. Crazy Sith’re gonna bomb the planet--”

“What?” Davik squawked.

“I said, the crazy Sith are gonna bomb this fracking planet!” 

“Keep your voice down,” Canderous muttered before Carth could. “Riots’ll make this more complicated.”

“Wouldn't want any civ panic about getting bombed, Ordo?” Carth had a sudden memory--evacuating that Xoxon city right before the spires blew. They'd barely made it out.  _ But is she right?  _ His eyes went back to the screen, which had panned out again, showing the cool planet, its ring of ships. Ships that had all moved, since the last holocast he’d seen.

“There are no military targets on this rock.” The Mandalorian frowned. “Doesn't make  _ sense.  _ But if you’re right we need codes  _ now, _ Davik. Codes to get through the blockade. And fast.”

“You're serious?” Davik’s frozen grin faded. He glanced at the screen and back at them. “You… you’re both war men. Mandie vets. You’re serious?”

Carth tried not to be offended by being mistaken for a Mandalorian.  _ Just the helm you got on, Onasi. Let it go. _

“I can get us out of here,” Polla whispered. “Something bad’s coming.”

“Codes,” Canderous barked again.

Davik Kang muttered what sounded like a curse. “I don't have them.”

_ “You're _ serious?” Polla demanded. “Thought you did.” Her eyes unfocused, and she suddenly looked a million parsecs away.

“Had last week’s! You know, they change!” 

“Useless.” Canderous scoffed. “Guess we're gonna need to do this the hard way.”

“The hard way?” Carth frowned.

“The more fun way,” Canderous added. “But we’ll need the robes and the Wookiee to round out our squad.” His eyes narrowed, looking at Davik. “Do we need you, Kang? Been a while since you paid me.” 

“Yes,” the man looked as purple as his body armor. “I can get the codes.” 

“What?” Carth looked at Polla, but she was still staring into space. Her lips moved slightly. “You okay?” He nudged her.

“Huh? Yeah… I-I can hear Bastila. In my head. Guess it's something… something Jedi do. She says the kid couldn't find anything in Davik’s files either. He doesn't have the codes. She says… she says we need to fly without the codes, but we need to come. Come there, now. I need to go there. Now.” She took a step forward, but Carth grabbed her arm, pulling her back.

“Not so fast,” he muttered.  _ Hear Bastila?  _ She’d said it before, but he--he hadn't taken it seriously.

“Bastila? Shan?” Davik laughed. “This gets better and better.”

Riek shrugged. “You just said you knew we had--”

“You fly my  _ Hawk _ through the Taris Defense Dome without codes, they’ll EMP her so quick you'll be a smear on a plat before you have a chance to cry about it,” Davik said. “The codes are in the Sith base--they change em daily now--not weekly. My girlfriend works reception. Take me there, we’ll get them, we’ll all leave this rock together--” his face twisted and he stared at Polla, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “Even  _ this one  _ and Bastila Shan.”

Xxx

“That's twenty thousand credits for each of you,” Vik reminded his squad of freshly-purchased (and still-uncertain) loyalists. “All you have to do is leave me the unmarked  _ Pinion, _ and have Corporal Fardin here fly my  _ Tempest.” _ Fardin was skilled enough, and Vik suspected Malak would be too busy gloating to check in with him personally. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes,” grunted Gardin. From the way his mealy Human eyes were narrowing at his companions, Vik suspected he'd sweeten the deal for himself by blackmailing them all. But that was not Vik’s problem. 

“Good.” Vik smiled and walked to the  _ Pinion,  _ leaving Tempest Squad to their own devices. He figured the odds of him actually finding Shan or Revan on the planet below were less than the odds of him surviving the one-sided bombardment. 

His T3, however, would be an easy salvage before that happened.

Xxx

As it turned out, Lieutenant Idras’s last communication took almost the time she had allocated for it and more, as tracking down Sith Lords proved more difficult than she had ever expected.

Darth Davad Arkan finally bothered to answer his comm-link just as Idras was about to give up. Its automatic loc put him on the Upper City, a few platforms west of her.

“My name is Idras. I work for Lord Beya,” she told his flickering holographic form. “She has asked me to offer assistance removing you from this planet. Darth Malak has plans to--”

**“I know his plans,”** he snapped.  **“And I know you. Are you to be my savior, Lieutenant Idras? Do you have a ship?”**

“I do.” She was less than pleased about the rest. “I have been instructed to put myself and my ship at your disposal.”

**“Good,”** Arkan snapped.  **“Do you have any news of** **_Revan?”_ **

Idras was glad Beya had warned her to expect this. “A woman matching her description just defeated Bendak Starkiller at Rik’s Cantina in the Upper City.”

**“I know,”** he murmured. **“She was glorious.”**

_ Then why did you ask?  _ But Idras knew that too. Some kind of test. 

“My orders were only to retrieve  _ you,”  _ she temporized, although of course, if he wanted to bring Darth Revan along she would have no way of stopping him. 

**“Meet me in the governor’s compound,”** he snapped.  **“The main computer room. And Idras...”** he paused.  **“Did Beya tell you to obey** **_all_ ** **of my orders?”**

_ She told me you would ask that,  _ she thought bitterly. “As long as they will not cause harm to her or her allies.”

The madman chuckled.  **“The compound may come under assault. Do nothing to stop the invaders, but kill any remaining personnel you find.”** His smile was pitiless.  **“I’m sure you must realize that they’re dead anyway.”**

Idras wondered if he realized that asking her to assault an Imperial base was a death sentence for  _ her.  _ And she wondered if he cared. She opened her mouth to object, but the words froze in her throat.

“Yes, my lord,” she heard her own voice say woodenly. “I will kill any remaining personnel I find.”

XXX

_ The pilot grinned at her, "Don't get frisky with the help, beautiful. Mercs can't be trusted. Especially Mandalorians." _ _   
_ _   
_ _ She grinned back. "Frisky?” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Frisky.” The man nodded. One side of his mouth pulled up. “I think you’re getting frisky.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “I'll show you frisky, you hairless Wookiee!" Polla reached behind her back and drew her sword—one smooth movement. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Even though his chances of getting anywhere seemed increasingly slim, Canderous couldn't help but admire the simplicity of her form, the perfect balance of her stance. It had been a long time since he had been home, since he had seen the grace of a woman’s body with a blade in her hand. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He felt a dull shock of surprise as he realized what she was about to do. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Her sword point grazed the edge of the pilot's cheek, etching a faint half circle, just a small scratch that didn't break the skin. The man didn't budge, but his eyes widened. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "What are you doing, gorgeous?" _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "Marking her claim," Canderous murmured. Someone had trained her well. He could understand her reticence in discussing it; but the dance was as old as the stars that had once been their Empire. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ "I'll be going now," he said to the empty air. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The pilot and the smuggler stood there, eyes locked. Canderous might has well have been in a different galaxy. _ _   
_ _   
_ __ A week later, on the way to Dantooine, he had asked her politely if she wanted his assistance in counseling the pilot for the marriage bed. He’d gotten a right hook to the jaw and a stream of Deralian curses for his efforts.

_ \--Memory, Chapter 18 _

 

A/N 

Version with typos. And hopefully no one is smiling when they are wearing a helmet. That gets me all the time. 

 

Song, Tina Turner “We Don’t Need Another Hero” seems accurate in so many ways.

The reference to tying a girls braids together us an homage to Binary Star’s story “Before the Dawn,” and before that I'd assume a reference to Tom Sawyer, who I think does that in “Tom Sawyer" with braids and an inkwell.

Much of the rest is, as always, heavily influenced by the adventures of Jen Sahara, in ether fanfict’s Identities of a Lost Soul.” Thanks, as always, for the beta, my vod. 

I have thought about making Bendak Starkiller a Lin in my headcanon for quite some time, as I g have been mulling over their duel scene for long time. That duel--and the scene with Canderous and Carth in the weapons armory--are both referenced in Memory, and so formed the bulk of this chapter's pacing.

Next up, Sith Base and the end of the world as we know it.

You are welcome for the ear worms. This chapter is very Mandalorian-y. Probably not the last. 

Ether: ty for reminder re orange jacket! I think Elias will be wearing it… and yes, good point re: Vik. If Malak watches the recording….

Ajaton123: thanks for reading! There's no happy ending to Oblivion. Memory… well, we will see. I'm trying to make this a stand-alone, with the hints going both ways, as it were. Hopefully it works.

Rose7: Not a lot of Davad in this chapter. At least, not  _ visibly. _ But next chapter, he will be back.

Cute Gallifreyan: Yeah, working out the parameters of the bond. It's no fun for either of them right now.


End file.
